


1901

by misanthropicacedia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Dancer Sherlock, Dark John, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/M, Infidelity, John cheats on Mary with Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Teaches John Watson to Dance, Sherlock Likes to Dance, Smut, dance teacher au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 09:58:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9603032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropicacedia/pseuds/misanthropicacedia
Summary: John is getting married to Mary and is dreading having to dance for their wedding. So he starts seeing a mysterious dance instructor Sherlock Holmes and very quickly they fall head over heels for each other. Only, John has hidden from Sherlock that he is getting married, and is also trying to hide from Mary that he has fallen for someone else. Soon he is in too deep and the wedding is just around the corner. Oh dear, John. What have you gotten yourself into? Soft ballet!lock included.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I started this as a small ballet!lock headcanon with the cliched "Sherlock teaches John to dance" trope, however, it wouldn't be me if I didn't attempt some angst in there, so I've decided to mix in some infidelity too.
> 
> Throughout each chapter, I will reference different songs and pieces of music, which I will link in the top notes of each chapter, so if you wish to get an idea of the mood and tone of the scene, it's a good idea to have a listen while you're reading or afterwards.
> 
> You can also find a Spotify playlist of all the music included in this story, as well as other songs not included explicitly in the story, [here.](https://open.spotify.com/user/1245955049/playlist/7CgD2pvEfJiI4E5TCT0619)
> 
> [John and Mary's song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sng_CdAAw8M)
> 
> [The music Sherlock is listening to at the beginning of the lesson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4z41Aao-egA)
> 
> [Sherlock and John's first dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gAWCuPG94dA&index=8&list=PLkgI_HOcQENwJHWwNR9KiK9GrGTvHqJwu)
> 
> (Also these haven't been checked by a beta, so any mistakes are my own - feel free to point them out)

“I’ve decided to take up dancing lessons,” John spoke quickly, his eyes not looking up at his fiancé who was standing across from him in their kitchen - he didn’t want her to catch a glimpse of the rosy red that was creeping up his neck.

John Watson had always been miserable at dancing, especially when compared to Mary who looked positively perfect as she wove her way naturally across the dancefloor, allowing the music to guide her. In the beginning, she had begged John to come out dancing however after the embarrassment of the first few times, it seemed they had given up his attempts in favour of watching his soon to be wife shake her hips while he absentmindedly tapped his feet under the table and nursed a few pints. Now, however, what with their wedding fast approaching in the upcoming months, John had been overcome with the feeling of complete dread at the thought of having to dance in front of all of his friends without any previous practice. Which is why, after much deliberation, John had decided upon a private dance instructor (god forbid if he had to do public dancing lessons in front of others) and had finally gotten round to telling Mary.

“ _Dancing lessons_?!” Mary’s face was a mix of shock and amusement, and her incredulous tone did nothing to quell the ever growing shade of crimson that was now covering his cheeks and neck.

“ _Mary_ ,” John scolded, feeling mortified. “See, this is why I wasn’t going to tell you in the first place! You—“

“Okay!” Mary held her hands up in surrender, her eyebrows raised. “Sorry, love, I’ll be serious from now on.”

John sighed, looking up at his wife with a frown of disbelief which prompted Mary to burst into a fit of giggles. The thought of John taking dancing lessons seemed to be too much for Mary to imagine.

“I’m doing this for you!” John huffed, becoming more and more irate as the minutes wore on. “I’m doing this so I don’t look like a complete plant pot at our wedding!”

Mary stifled another giggle, smiling at John, before she placed a hand on his cheek and planted a kiss on his lips. “Of course I know you’re doing it for me,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling. “I think it’s a lovely idea. When do you start?”

“Tomorrow,” John answered, still feeling slightly embarrassed – he found himself staring into his cup of tea with much intensity to avoid looking at his fiancé. “I found someone online who seems a bit okay – he’s got plenty of positive reviews and quite reasonably priced.”

 _Silence_.

John looked up at Mary and found her smirking into her cup of tea before she sat it down on the counter and spat out “ _He_?”

“W-well yes, why not?” John was suddenly defensive.

“Oh my, _this_ I’ve got to see,” she quipped, giggling. “ _My_ John having dancing lessons with a man? Just make sure he buys you a drink after, love!”

Rolling his eyes, John walked out of the kitchen into the living room and sat down at his laptop which was sitting left open on the table with an article on hyperbilirubinemia in infants. He sat down to it and attempted to ignore Mary by involving himself in the words on the screen in front of him.

_Neonatal hyperbilirubinemia, defined as a total serum bilirubin level above 5 mg per …_

He could hear Mary coming up behind him.

_… up to 60 percent of term newborns have clinical jaundice in the first week of life …_

She placed her arms around him from behind. _Ignore her, John_.

_… However, hyperbilirubinemia in the newborn period can be associated with severe illnesses such as hemolytic disease …_

It was only when she began to sway from side to side with him in her arms, forcing him to move with her, and softly trilling their song in his ear that he eventually had to give in and force out a laugh.

“ _I’m a fool for that shake in your thighs … I’m a fool for that sound in your sighs …_ ” she crooned in his ear, arms around him gently but firmly. “ _I’m a fool for your belly …_ ” she moved one arm down to John’s belly, which had, to his dismay, grown slightly (too many takeaways mixed with a lack of cycling to work due to weather). “ _Baby, I’m a fool for your love …_ ”

At the end of her soft, slightly off key rendition of the song, she turned him to face her. He knew the jig was up and he would have to give in to this wretched woman, but he kept his lips pursed and forehead in a frown of mock anger. Mary then placed a gentle kiss on the side of John’s cheek, which turned into more kisses until she was eventually planting wet, sloppy ones all over John’s face. He couldn’t help but let out a laugh as she continued her assault.

“Right, you!” he said, laughing as he grabbed onto Mary’s waist and pulled her down onto his lap, tickling her sides and assaulting her with kisses in the same way she did to him just moments prior.

Mary laughed freely, before wheezing out a “Please _stop_!”

John let up, allowing Mary to straighten herself so she was sitting cradled in his lap, arms looped around his neck – both were smiling benignly at each other, all thoughts of their near-fight gone.

“You’re not coming with me,” John said firmly yet kindly. “But maybe once I’ve got some practice I might let you.”

“It’s a deal,” Mary winked, shaking his hand.

\--

John was bloody nervous. He had walked to the dance studio from his work after he had finished at 4pm – it was now 4:24 and he knew his dance instructor would be inside waiting for him to come in at 4:30. He had decided to keep the fact he was practicing for his wedding to himself because all he could imagine was going in there and coming out mortified after the instructor told him he was a lost cause and there was no point in him continuing with their lessons.

The studio was obviously going to be upstairs, with the only indication of a studio existing being the metal door which had “Holmes Dance Studio” spray painted across the front in black ink; it was squeezed between a liquor store and an Italian restaurant. John walked up to the door and his hand hovered over the handle, before he took a deep breath and walked inside.

He had entered into a small concrete stairwell which had one set of stairs directly in front of him leading up to a wooden door; this had another sign stating he was indeed entering “Holmes Dance Studio”.

Before John got to the top of the stairs, he could hear the sound of soft classical music coming from behind it and although John could not name the piece, or the composer, it stirred some resemblance in his mind. John glanced at his watch again: 4:32pm _Shit_ , he thought, _late_. And with only a moment’s hesitation, he opened the door to the studio and entered.

Sherlock Holmes was sitting at the piano which was sitting in the corner at the top of the studios, his eyes closed as he took in the music that was playing over the speakers. His face rose to the heavens as the violin swelled to a crescendo, his face conveying something akin to sadness if it were not for the smile playing at his thin lips. He kept his eyes closed as the music continued, rising and falling with a depth John couldn’t understand.

John watched in silence, not wanting to disturb the man in front of him straight away. He stood by the door and allowed himself to take in the music, although somehow feeling as though he were missing what the strange man across from him was experiencing.

And as the music echoed across the studio with a final haunting note, Sherlock opened his eyes to watch John coolly, speaking out across the room to him.

“Benjamin Britten,” his low voice was commanding and John stood in silence, watching the man as he rose from the piano and began to walk over to where John was, passing the countless mirrors which were all over the walls. “He conducted that piece with the English Chamber Orchestra. You missed the first 13 minutes.”

Sherlock was tall, John noted, and he had an intensity about him that made John curious to talk to him to try and unravel the mystery he seemed to hold. He had dark hair which was slicked back across his head stylishly, and a jawline that would rival George Clooney. He was wearing a fitted light blue collared shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves, tucked into a pair of tailored slacks, all of which was finished off with some dark, pinstripe braces. He was stylish and tall and handsome and everything John felt that he wasn’t.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said kindly, extending his hand, his eyes staring intensely into John‘s.

“John Watson,” John finally answered, shaking his soft hand firmly.

“So you want to learn to dance?” Sherlock asked, turning on his heel and quickly moving across to the middle of the studio.

John followed awkwardly, not knowing where to place his jacket, so he just kept it on him, feeling slightly warm, but suffering through it.

“Yeah, uh—“ John didn’t know where to start. “I’m a bit shit, to be honest.” He answered truthfully.

Sherlock’s face didn’t change from deep thought, his eyes roving across John’s body and face, dissecting him bit by bit.

“Yes, well, I can already see that – look at your _shoulders_ ,” he spoke, almost to himself more than anything. “And your _shoes_ … no-no-no, they’ll have to go.”

“Excuse me?” John didn’t know whether to laugh or cry – of course it would turn out exactly the way he expected: obviously this man was a bit of an arrogant dickhead and he was going to be told to leave the first chance Sherlock got.

“Take off your jacket and let me have a look at you properly,” Sherlock commanded, moving up to John and nearly ripping his jacket off him in a flurry.

John allowed his jacket to be pulled from him, feeling too overwhelmed to do anything else. He felt out of place in his usual cardigan/shirt/jeans combo next to Posh Boy Sherlock Holmes, but soon forgot when he felt Sherlock’s hands on his shoulders from behind him.

The man twisted John around to face him, still grasping firmly onto his shoulders, before he began to shake him violently, back and forth and side to side.

“Oi, what the bloody hell are you playing at, mate?” John wrenched himself free from Sherlock and stepped back, feeling slightly dizzy, but ready to defend himself if need be.

“You need to loosen up, John.” Sherlock stated calmly, as if viciously shaking a man you’ve only known for a few minutes was the most normal thing in the world. “You’re never going to be able to achieve it on your own, so I am going to help you.”

“Loosen up …?” John had to laugh. “And what’s that got to do with dancing at all?”

“You’re uptight in your shoulders, particularly your left, previous injury, I bet. And your shoes are exacerbating the problem. You need to loosen up before we try anything - my form of teaching will not work if you’re not _completely_ open to me.”

“Right …” John frowned.

“John, I want you to try something for me,” Sherlock spoke, kinder this time, his eyes softening as they watched John’s concerned face. “I’m not going to harm you or shake you about like I did earlier - I just need you to trust me.”

There was something in Sherlock’s voice that, against everything John stood for, made him believe in this man and made him say, “ _Okay_.”

“Close your eyes –“

John hesitantly closed his eyes.

“- and stay where you are.”

John heard Sherlock’s footsteps across the wooden floor and there was a small _click_ before soft notes of piano began playing out of the speakers, reverberating through the room and in turn, through John as he stood in silence, awaiting Sherlock’s next move.

“Keep your eyes closed,” John heard Sherlock murmur – his voice seemed close. “Now breathe and _relax_ into the music.”

John made a conscious effort to soften the frown on his face as he focused on the tender music echoing through the studio, allowing it to seep into his muscles and skin. He made an effort not to try and think about where Sherlock might be in the room, only allowing his voice to guide him. He purposely attempted to _relax_ his shoulders, allowing a small amount of tension to drop from them.

“Okay,” Sherlock whispered, his voice now enticingly close to John’s ear. “I’m going to lead you now. Just feel the music, follow me, and remember to _relax_. You may open your eyes when you are ready.”

Sherlock was in front of John and he gently took John’s right hand, placing it on Sherlock’s small waist which felt surprisingly muscular underneath his clothes ( _stop thinking about that, John_ ) – he then took John’s hand in his right, placed his left hand on John’s shoulder and moved in close enough that John could smell his sweet scent. And somehow, without John trying very hard at all, they were dancing, ever so slowly, across the floor.

John opened his eyes, looking up at the man in front of them and he couldn’t help but smile; it felt as if they were the only two people in the world and John was intoxicated by him. A mixture of music, awkwardness, and happiness at the fact that he was actually _dancing_ without fear had turned his brain to mush which showed in his face (Sherlock thought he looked rather gormless as he looked up at him, although it was quite charming at the same time).

“That’s it,” Sherlock breathed, pulling him closer as they moved to and fro with the piano. It was a relatively easy song to dance to – Dustin O’Halloran regularly composed music that would relax his clients and allow them to move with ease without any complicated noises invading their space. Sherlock didn’t like to admit it, but he was quite enjoying having a male client for once, especially one that looked as good as John Watson and who could dance as naturally as he did. “And we’re turning – yes, left leg back – you’re doing wonderfully … a natural, John.”

John flushed at the compliment and suddenly he was very aware of how intimate this situation felt – green eyes drinking him in, soft hands holding each other tenderly, skin on skin, breathing so close to each other’s space he could almost taste Sherlock – and suddenly John felt … _guilty_? As the song ended, John quickly dropped Sherlock’s hand and took a step back, clearing his throat, arms swinging.

“That was …” _what_? John thought, feeling confused.

“Perfect,” Sherlock stated simply, moving over to the piano and switching off the music player which was on the floor next to it, plugged into the wall. “You were perfect, John. I don’t know what you were talking about when you said you were shit.”

“Well, I always have been,” John rubbed the back of his neck, moving over to where Sherlock was by the piano. “I’ve never been able to do … _that_.”

Sherlock was rifling through his bag which was on the floor, pulling out scrunched up paper, some of which had scrawled writing and diagrams of certain dance moves across them, obviously penned from Sherlock’s hand. He then pulled out a flier and handed it to John.

“This is my local chiropractor – she’s very good and will help with your shoulder,” he explained, pointing to the number on the front. “And next time I see you, you better be wearing better shoes than … whatever those are.”

John smiled, looking down at his brown leather loafers. “Hey, I actually like these shoes!” he protested jokingly. “What’s wrong with them?”

Sherlock’s eyes never left John’s and without hesitation, Sherlock simply said with a shrug “They’re obnoxious.” A sly smile played at Sherlock’s lips as he saw John’s face frown in horror.

“Well I’m sure with all of our lessons you’ll get used to me wearing them, Mr. Holmes,” John quipped, smiling back impishly.

There was a beat of silence where the two men observed each other. John knew their lesson was up, but he suddenly wanted to spend more time with this man – he was enjoying himself and knew that when he got home it would be back to boredom, Sheppard’s pie, and Mary’s favourite reality TV show. Sherlock seemed to be feeling the same way as he stood across from John, attempting to come up with something to keep the two of them together – he had no other clients for the evening and he was enjoying flirting with this man.

“I should, uh, go.” John finally muttered. Still, he didn’t move from where he was. _What was he doing_?

“Yes, well, it was good to finally put a face to the phone calls, Mr. Watson.” Sherlock rushed to grab John’s coat, handing it to him quickly.

“Thanks,” John took his coat. “You can actually just call me John.”

“Yes. John. Okay. Well, I will see you next week, John.”

John nodded, put on his coat, and made his way across the studio to the door and opened it to leave. He stopped when he heard Sherlock rushing over to where he was.

“Wait,” Sherlock spoke urgently.

John turned and Sherlock was in front of him again, hastily pulling on a black, double breasted Belstaff coat – it made him look even taller than he already was. He was carrying his leather messenger bag which had papers stuffed into it, hanging out of the top slightly.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, slightly breathless.

“Hungry?” John asked stupidly. _Say yes, you stupid man!_ He thought, inwardly kicking himself. “Uh, yes-yes I’m hungry. Starving, in fact.”

“Well, I’m finished up for the evening and I know a place a block or so over that makes a delicious spaghetti meatball … if you are interested, that is?” Sherlock’s heart was in his throat.

John knew what Sherlock was asking, but he was still taken aback. “Oh, I’m actually a vegetarian,” he said without thinking.

“Ah, well, I understand. It was probably a bit forward of me to assume you had the time anyway—“

“—no, no, I didn’t mean – do they have vegetarian options?” John quickly cut in, feeling panicked that he was now missing out on his chance.

“Yes!” Sherlock answered a bit too enthusiastically. “Yes, plenty of them!”

 _Where has the suave, cool guy from earlier gone?_ John thought, amused at the sight of this polished man feeling slightly anxious.

“Well I’m starving, then.” John finally said.

“Give me a moment to lock up. If you want to head down and hail a cab for us?” Sherlock began rifling through his pockets for his keys.

Heading downstairs, John felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw Mary’s name flashing up, notifying him of a text she had sent just seconds earlier. And suddenly … _guilt again_?

_‘How’s it going? When will you be home?_

_Hope you haven’t embarrassed yourself too much ;) x’_

John hesitated, before clicking reply and contemplating what he was supposed to tell her: “it’s going well, I’m extremely attracted and intrigued by him, and he’s taking me out to dinner”? _Jesus Christ, John_.

John began to form a reply.

‘ _It’s going really well—_ ‘

John sucked in a breath before steeling himself and finishing his text.

‘ _I’ve been called into work for an emergency –so I’m going to have to go and finish up some paperwork and lock up. Will be home late_

 _Don’t wait up._ ’

John clicked send and quickly put his phone back in his pocket, looking up to find a cab passing by. He just _lied_ to Mary. For the first time in their relationship.

Sherlock came through the door, locked it behind him, coming up beside John.

“No luck?” he asked quietly.

“Sorry?” John’s heart dropped into his stomach, suddenly thinking he was referencing John’s text to his fiancée.

“A cab,” Sherlock gestured to the busy street. “No luck getting one then?”

“Oh,” John let out a breath. “Yeah, no luck so far.”

Sherlock eyed John for a beat, noting the light sheen of sweat across his lip and the jittering movements – he seemed a lot more uptight compared to when they were talking inside. Perhaps he was nervous about them having dinner together, Sherlock surmised with a small smile.

As a cab that Sherlock had hailed halted in front of the pair, John ducked his head to step inside. He felt Sherlock’s warm hand on the small of his back as he guided him into the car. And as guilty as he was feeling about the situation, John wanted him to keep his firm touch on his bones. With a start he realised he wanted more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be updating every 7 days with each chapter and I'm estimating there to be around 10 chapters. It gets pretty dark for John and I just want you guys to be aware of that, but to also stick by him.
> 
> Also: Benjamin Britten who I referenced in the story was a well known 19th century gay composer who has a really interesting story, including his love letters that have since been released that he sent to his lover and partner of 35 year, Peter Pears. If you guys get a chance, [have a read on his history.](http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kevin-childs/benjamin-britten_b_4318555.html)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [-here.-](http://www.misanthropic-acedia.tumblr.com)
> 
> Again, please remember to let me know if you liked it (or even if you didn't like it (but please be kind)).
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to add in a little bit of canon here, adding my twist to it, so I hope you all think it's okay.
> 
> A short chapter today (honestly, this one was a struggle for me because I've been so busy with work) so please remember to let me know if you enjoyed it or if you think I could improve in anyway because a lot of this was written while I was severely sleep deprived. XD
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock was greeted warmly when he entered the restaurant by a portly Italian who grasped Sherlock’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. The man, who Sherlock greeted as Angelo, had a booming voice as he received the pair.

“Sherlock!” he rumbled, grasping onto Sherlock’s shoulder firmly and smiling at him. “It’s been so long, my friend! Anything on the menu, whatever you want – free.”

Sherlock merely smiled kindly, allowing him to bustle them over to a prime table situated at the front window, overlooking Northumberland Street which was active with life.

As John sat across from Sherlock, Angelo came back to their table with two menus, repeating what he had stated earlier – “Anything you’re after, Sherlock, on the house; for you and your date.” He gestured to John.

Sherlock didn’t react at that and merely looked at John, “What are you feeling like eating?” he queried.

John was, at the time, taking a sip of water that was on the table for them. He spluttered into it slightly before putting his glass down and choking out “M’not his date.”

Both Angelo and Sherlock didn’t seem to hear him as Sherlock had taken John’s menu already and was placing an order for them: eggplant parmigiana and a mushroom risotto. He also ordered a sparkling water for himself and, when John was prompted, a red wine. Angelo moved off to place the order, leaving John and Sherlock alone together, regarding each other across the table.

“So John,” Sherlock spoke low, his voice seeming to crackle when he said John’s name. “Why are you deciding to learn to dance now?”

 _Oh jesus._ “Well …” John hesitated for a beat – _do I tell him I’m getting married?_ “It’s for a wedding.” _Shit shit shit_. “My sister’s.”  he quickly finished. _Liar._

Sherlock nodded, regarding John with cool eyes. “A good excuse to start,” he responded. “You really did pick it up naturally. Freeform dancing is one of my favourite methods of teaching – allowing someone to learn to _feel_ their way through a song, letting them be touched by every resounding note. It’s the highest form of expression, in my opinion. And the way you just knew how to feel it was just beautiful.”

John smiled at the sight of Sherlock lighting up over his passion – all angular arms as he moved his hands around, showing as well as telling John about music and dance and emotion intertwined. John admired the way Sherlock allowed the words to fall from his mouth, including praise. So many times he had to wrench honesty from the lips of those around him, it became exhausting. But with Sherlock, everything was so forthcoming and truthful and raw – he could have listened to him speak all day.

Minutes later, Angelo had returned with a large glass of red and a sparkling water. He placed them on the table and then gleefully pulled a candle from his pocket and placed it in the middle of the table.

“Here you go, boys. Much more romantic.” He spoke, lighting it and moving off before John could protest. Sherlock simply smiled, taking a sip of his water.

“How do you know Angelo? You two seem to get along pretty well,” John asked.

“I taught him to dance for his wedding – a surprise for his wife. He has a sturdy memory, Angelo – holds onto things – hence his friendship with me.” Sherlock answered, eyes moving over to where Angelo was serving another table. “He’s a good man.”

“You have family in London?” John pried, attempting to seem nonchalant.

“A brother whom I don’t see. My parents are retired in Dorset – I try to avoid seeing most of them at all times, however sometimes when the occasion calls for it, it can’t be helped.” Sherlock spoke, cold. “What about yourself? Any family here?”

“My sister works just outside of London, so I never really see her,” John decided to omit his wife to be.

“You don’t have a partner then?” Sherlock suddenly wasn’t looking at John; he seemed to be focusing intensely on his drink, watching the bubbles rise slowly to the top.

“No.”

John didn’t understand why the lie fell from his lips so easily: possibly it was the wine he had drank too fast on an empty stomach, or maybe it was the fact that he couldn’t stop looking at the way Sherlock would lick his lips every so often in between words. He didn’t understand the reason, but later down the track he knew it would come back to haunt him somehow. For now though, he allowed it to roll from his lungs like a snake and settle itself around his throat. He swallowed more wine.

“Do you mind if I go use the loo?” John asked, rising from the table.

“Not at all,” Sherlock answered.

John briskly walked into the men’s room and took his phone out of his pocket. Two texts from Mary.

#1

_‘That’s a shame. I’ll save u dinner x’_

#2

‘ _When will you be home?_ ’

John quickly responded:

‘ _An hour or so._ ’

When John returned to the table, their food had arrived and it was delicious – John started on the parmigiana and eventually finished Sherlock’s risotto as well. The conversation flowed easily with Sherlock explaining how he had plans in the next year to move to Sussex, where he would continue teaching part time and pursue new horizons. John, now stuffed, was finishing his third glass of wine. He found himself examining Sherlock from across the table; the way Sherlock’s fingers absentmindedly caressed the table in front of him, drawing circles as he spoke about ballet and his study in classical music. He watched him swallow his drink, his adam’s apple moving under his pale skin. How it was possible for someone to look attractive while they _swallowed_ was beyond John, but somehow Sherlock achieved that. John couldn’t help but imagine doing the worst things to Sherlock right there in the restaurant across the table, thinking about Sherlock crying his name. _Shit_. John knew, what with his wine addled brain, that he had to leave. _Now_. Before he did anything he would later regret.

Sure enough, once he had finished his wine and their plates had been removed, John finally decided enough was enough: it was time for him to go home to his fiancé. The fantasy was finished. Back to reality.

Standing on the sidewalk, John was very aware of the fact that this very much felt like the end of a date moment: the moment where the couple awkwardly kiss, or one invites the other around to their apartment and a night of hot sex ensues. And when Sherlock hailed a cab down, he almost thought Sherlock was going to lean in for a kiss (and would he have said no if he had tried?). But instead, Sherlock simply opened the door for John, smiled and bid him a goodnight.

John watched Sherlock grow smaller as the cab crawled away, merging into busy traffic. He mumbled his address to the driver, staring absentmindedly out the car window at the passing lights. It had started to rain, so the lights were slightly blurred and every so often, when the light hit him the right way, he saw his reflection staring back at him. He felt very nearly close to being drunk.

His house was dark when he got inside but as he moved upstairs, he could see a slit of light from underneath his bedroom door, indicating Mary was most likely still up reading. John went into the bathroom and relieved himself, before washing his face and examining his reflection.

He still looked like himself. If only he _felt_ that way. Truth be told, he felt like an alien in his own skin. He knew he hadn’t cheated on Mary physically, but he had still lied to her and that in itself was eating him up. He had never lied to his partners before – honesty was something he cherished. And yet …

His relationship with Mary had always been strained: it had started with his parents not liking her at all. “She’s too promiscuous for you, John.” His father’s words echoed through his mind, remembering the countless fights he had with him when his dad brought up Mary in that way. And of course those fights had sowed the seed of discomfort between Mary and himself, so for the first 6 months of their relationship nearly every few days they were having yelling matches with each other. And Mary, as strong as she was, held her own, throwing back whatever John aimed at her with a passion John hadn’t witnessed before.

Then Mary’s ex David came onto the scene and John being a naturally jealous person decided he was going to pick a fight with him any chance he got. Mary had explained what felt like millions of times that they were _just friends_ and John accepted that, on Mary’s part, but he couldn’t help but not trust the git – something about his face just screamed _sneaky_.

And over the years, as their relationship grew older, normality set in. They said I love you less. They had sex even less than that. Then Mary took it upon herself to propose to John in (what he later deduced was) an attempt to freshen their relationship and their love for each other. But after a year of wedding planning and tasting cake and floral arrangements and parents arguing and fittings, John was just _tired_. And, he hated to admit, he was bloody bored of it. Sighing, John switched off the light in the bathroom and made his way down the hall to his bedroom.

Mary was lying in bed asleep, her arm sprawled out onto John’s side of the bed with her book lying open, inches from her fingers. John undressed quickly and slipped quietly into bed next to her, switching off the light. He had attempted not to disturb her, but with the wine making him fumble awkwardly, she woke immediately, eyes opening and falling on John who was now lying in bed.

“Mm,” she hummed, sitting up on her elbow to look at him through the dark. “Must have fallen asleep.”

“Sorry if I woke you,” John whispered.

“No, it’s fine, love.” She answered, yawning. “Oh god, John, you smell like a wine cellar.”

“I had a few at the pub after work with Stamford,” John lied.

“S’fine,” Mary yawned again. She then sat up quickly, pulling the blankets with her. “I almost forgot, how was your lesson? Did you fail miserably?”

John knew she was saying that in jest, but it only made him more willing to keep his secret even more.

“It was fine.” He answered curtly. “Actually, Mary, I’m pretty exhausted – I just want to go to sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

Mary’s face fell into a pout as she lay down in bed next to John, her hand coming to rest on his forearm gently. Her touch seemed to burn into his skin and all John wanted to do was rip himself away from it; instead he simply allowed her to keep her hand on him as she closed her eyes and sighed out “goodnight, then.”

John was conflicted – of course he loved Mary, that much was certain. However, he had always been of the opinion that if someone cheated on their partner, then obviously they couldn’t have loved that deeply after all. _But you haven’t cheated!_ John argued with himself, angrily lying awake in the dark, eyes staring out into the black. _All I did was have dinner with a new friend! I’m allowed to have new friends!_ But friends don’t feel the kind of attraction John felt for Sherlock. Friends don’t watch their other friend’s lips, greedily taking in the sight, wishing they could bite them, pushing their tongue inside to taste. Friends don’t think about sucking on the white flesh of their friend’s neck, imagining the bruise that would form underneath his mouth. And friends certainly don’t think about burying themselves deep inside their friend’s ass, wondering whether the noises they would make would be soft and needy, or loud and raw and wanton. John was growing hotter as his thoughts grew wilder by the second and he had to bite down on his hand to stop himself from touching himself in bed next to his girlfriend who had fallen back asleep. Suddenly his phone lit up with a text. Opening it up, John let out a quiet groan as he saw Sherlock’s text.

‘ _I am looking forward to showing you some of my moves, John Watson._

_I can see you’ve got a huge talent._

_SH’_

Was that an innuendo? _Jesus_. That certainly didn’t help John’s predicament. With a quick glance at Mary to check she was still asleep, John responded.

‘ _I am looking forward to having you show me. Perhaps an increase in lesson frequency is in order? Thank you for an enjoyable evening._ ’

Sure, John hadn’t cheated _physically_ , but he knew deep down he wanted to. He knew deep down, if (or when) the opportunity presented itself, he would take it straight away; he would be greedy and desperate in his need – which is where the majority of his guilt came from. It had been so long since he had been with a man that he had nearly forgotten what it felt like. He had memories from years ago with his first love – sometimes when he was with Mary he would fantasize about those times, closing his eyes and imagining someone else underneath him. James Sholto was his first and last and he was a memory in the wind – he would catch glimpses of him every now and then in small things like a scent or a certain phrase and sometimes in his dreams he would remember his lips and his hard fingers. But the rest was hazy and faded and left to rot in the abscess of his mind where John left his most painful memories.

Sherlock’s reply lit up his phone:

‘ _I think that would be wise. I will enjoy seeing more of you._

_We can discuss that later: for now, it is late._

_Goodnight, John._ ’

John sent back a text saying goodnight and turned his phone off, setting it on to charge. His mind was reeling and he expected to not get much sleep that night. Instead, the most likely thing to happen would be thoughts of Sherlock and his scent and the feeling of his waist under his hands as they danced together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!
> 
> As ever, you can find my tumblr [-here.-](http://www.misanthropic-acedia.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oscillation on the pavement and bare feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm uploading this chapter early due to me being too busy over the weekend to upload it. It's basically double the word count of the last chapter (is that normal to have chapters differing so greatly in size? I'm still learning, so I guess that's normal for me? Maybe I'll start a trend ...)
> 
> Including one of my favourite songs at the moment: Memo by Years and Years. I chose this song mainly because I love it, but I also felt the lyrics were perfect as well.
> 
>  
> 
> [Sherlock and John's Dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eolPN4j3npQ)
> 
>  
> 
> As ever, please let me know what you guys think - any and all feedback is appreciated!

John and Mary were sitting inside a small boutique shop that specialised in wedding stationery. The stout woman sitting across from the pair was babbling on about the benefits of what she called her “Lily of the Valley Range”. John didn’t really understand what she was so excited about considering the range she was showing the two looked exactly the same as the previous range she had presented to them, only with lace trimming.

“It’s a beautiful range,” she prattled, holding up the mock invitation. “Simple, elegant, and I think you’ll agree the print along with the valley motif complement each other wonderfully.”

Mary nodded enthusiastically, holding up the previous invitation sample against the one Joanne was holding. “Oh, it’s just _lovely_.” She gushed.

John was staring out the window of the shop watching people pass by, thinking about the text he had just received from Sherlock confirming their lesson on Monday evening; they had decided instead of seeing each other every seven days, they would now be having lessons every three days – what they would achieve in the multiple times he would be seeing him over the next few weeks John was not certain, but he wasn’t complaining. He was nervous, but also incredibly eager to see Sherlock and be close to him again. John allowed his mind to wander to thoughts of what could possibly occur next time he was with Sherlock – would they end up kissing at the end of the lesson? Would they dance together, closer than they had been before? Would Sherlock pull John back when they broke apart, his lips crashing into his, hard and rough? Or would he be gentle and shy, allowing John to take the lead, pushing his tongue into his mouth with fervour? He imagined Sherlock’s hand pulling at the soft hairs at the nape of John’s neck, tugging them slightly, him sighing into John’s body as they held each other close, their bodies desperate for each other.

 _“John_.” Mary’s sharp voice cut through his reverie. “I’ve been talking to you for the past five minutes – have you heard _anything_ I’ve been saying?”

John looked over at Joanne, then Mary; both were watching him with expressions of confusion and annoyance, waiting expectantly for him to answer.

“Oh,” John ran his hands through his hair, awkward. “Sorry, what were you just saying?”

“I was _just_ saying which one do you prefer?” Mary snapped, pointing to the two options on the table (both looked the same). “If you find this that boring, you can just go wait in the car.”

“No, no, I was just … I like the valley one.” John quickly answered, pointing to one of the options.

“That’s our Intrepid Persuasion design,” Joanne answered with a sigh, eyeing John suspiciously. She turned to Mary. “Perhaps we should leave this decision to you, Mary.”

Mary sighed, nodding. “Yes, I think so. I like the Valley range, let’s go with that one.”

John and Mary left the store with a bag full of blank invitations, Mary’s face made of stone as she marched ahead towards their car. John rushed to keep up, knowing she was very obviously angry at him and feeling slightly guilty.

“What did I do?” John asked stupidly, matching her stride.

“What do you _think_ you did, John?” she asked, reeling around to face him. “You were so embarrassing in there! You should have just bloody stayed home if you were going to find planning our wedding so boring!”

John opened his mouth to apologise, but was cut short as Mary stormed off, getting into their car and slamming the door dramatically. She sat in silence, waiting for John to get into the driver’s seat. When he started the car, she crossed her arms, pursing her lips as she stared angrily out the window.

“I’m sorry.” He offered as he pulled out into the street and began their drive home. “It’s just been a long day, is all.”

A sigh from Mary. “I know it’s been a long day, but the least you could have done is acted like you actually _cared_ about our wedding, John.”

John stayed silent, glancing at Mary out of the corner of his eye: her face had softened slightly, but he knew she was still slightly annoyed with him by the slight crease in her brow.

“We need to fill these out and you can post them once they’re done, okay?” Mary said as they pulled into their driveway and parked up.

“Of course,” John responded.

\--

The following Monday, John had finished work quickly, rushing to get to his lesson with Sherlock at 4:30. He arrived at the studio on time, however when he walked up to the door he was suddenly overcome with an intense feeling of trepidation. His hand hovered over the door handle, his mind sullied by thoughts of _what on earth are you doing_? He knew going upstairs surely meant their relationship was going to progress in some way or another: both he and Sherlock could feel it without it even being spoken out loud. Hell, John _wanted_ it to happen. He was sure going upstairs meant he was bound to start something he wasn’t sure how to finish.

 _No, no, you can’t_. John moved away from the door back onto the sidewalk, his heart hammering in his throat. John turned to leave, but his legs seemed to hold him in place. He had an appointment with this man, which meant he had to uphold it; Sherlock was waiting for him upstairs, expecting him. He moved back to the door and grasped onto the handle; the cool metal felt heavy in his hand and as he slowly turned it, he took a deep breath before committing himself and moving through the door and up the stairs into the studio.

Sherlock was sitting at the piano, engrossed in a paper in his hands. He had a deep frown on his forehead, his nose creased in between his eyes and at the sight of Sherlock looking _so damn_ _good_ , John knew it was the right decision to come. He looked up at John and smiled lightly, his green eyes melting at the sight of him as John ran his hands through his hair awkwardly. Sherlock looked just as beautiful as ever: this time his hair was coifed into casual curls, some falling forward to graze his forehead. He was wearing a pair of thick rimmed glasses which made him look charming and youthful. A white collared shirt was peeking out underneath a soft, tan jumper that was tucked into a pair of casual black trousers. He looked breathtakingly handsome and once again, John was lost for words at the sight.

“Are you going to come in, or are you going to continue standing at the door looking confused?” Sherlock quipped, still sitting at the piano. He took off his glasses and placed them on top.

“Right,” John blushed. “Yes, sorry.”

Moving into the room, Sherlock met him halfway, his eyes regarding him calmly. There was a brief moment of silence before Sherlock let out a small _tsk_ , sucking the air in between his teeth.

“What?” John asked, suddenly worried something was terribly wrong. “Is everything okay?”

“No,” Sherlock answered, using two of his fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Something is very wrong, John.”

“What? Tell me!” John was quite worried now, watching Sherlock become more frazzled as the seconds wore on.

“What did I tell you at our last lesson, Mr. Watson?” he asked, his eyes falling back on John’s face.

“Um …” John, for the life of him, had no idea what he was on about.

“I see you’re still wearing those _god awful_ shoes!” Sherlock gestured to the brown loafers, his face looking as if a tragedy had taken place. “You were supposed to wear something else! Must I take you shoe shopping myself?”

John couldn’t help but let a burst of laughter bubble from his chest as Sherlock’s frown deepened, the cute crease returning to his nose. He looked down at his shoes before returning to look up at Sherlock who looked affronted.

“It’s not supposed to be funny, John!” Sherlock bemoaned, gesturing theatrically at John’s feet.

“Well—“ John wheezed in between desperate giggles. “—I guess they’ll just have to do for now, won’t they?”

“Yes, yes, alright you can stop laughing now,” Sherlock answered, flailing his hand as if to shoo away the matter. “We’ve got a lot to do today, so rather than you guffawing over your poor choice of footwear, we should get started. But I’m taking you shoe shopping as soon as possible.”

John settled down, shuffling his feet underneath him, a smile playing at his lips, and Sherlock took a remote out of his pocket that was connected to the stereo in the corner.

“Sit,” he pointed to the back wall, gesturing to the floor. “I’m going to show you a piece that you’re going to learn over the next few weeks. I’ve been working on this over the weekend and really feel it works for you. I’ve used movements that will allow you to have a solid grasp on several concepts that you can incorporate into other songs and dances, including freeform, which we used last week. This can be danced either by yourself, or with a partner.”

As John sat, Sherlock removed his jumper, pulling it over his head so he was just wearing his white shirt. John couldn’t help but drink in the sight of Sherlock’s taut stomach as he pulled his jumper off, which had caused the shirt underneath ride up to reveal his pale white skin. He tucked his shirt back into his pants before clicking play and sliding the remote across the floor away from him.

The music began to swell gradually, a simple piano playing out into the room, before a soft voice trilled out of the speakers.

‘ _Are you gonna hide, are you gonna burn_

_Gonna answer me?_

_Let me take your heart_

_Love you in the dark_

_No one has to see …_ ’

Sherlock moved gracefully with the music, his face showing depth and intense emotion that connected him with the movements. He looked tall and lithe as he moved his body with elegant movements. John didn’t expect to be quite so enraptured by him, but as he moved across the floor, stepping into simple, yet powerful movements, John felt his heart swelling, his breath coming out in short bursts as he realised every so often that he was holding it. Sherlock twisted himself through the music, eyes falling on John, and then on himself in the mirror behind him, making sure everything he was doing was just so. Sherlock made it look so easy, but John soon became anxious at the thought of learning the steps.

‘ _No, oh oh, you could bring it back_

_Who wouldn’t want it when he looks like that?_

_Oh oh, I want you to stay_

_And if I try my hardest, would you look my way?_ ’

John listened to the lyrics in the song and thought it fitting for the situation. Sherlock’s dance came to an end and he stood in the middle of the room; his lips were parted, slightly breathless. John was silent for a beat, before he simply breathed, “ _wow_.”

“You think so?” Sherlock asked, almost shy as he grabbed a few sheets of paper and came over to John, gracefully sitting down in front of him, cross legged.

“I think it was beautiful,” John smiled. “I don’t know how you expect me to do that, but I would certainly enjoy watching you do that a few more times.”

Sherlock seemed to blush slightly, colour rising in his cheeks. “You’ll do just fine. I’ve written down every separate movement so you have it on paper – that way if you’re ever stuck you can refer back to this.”

He placed the pages on the floor and as John reached out to twist them around to face him so he could read them, Sherlock did the same, causing their hands to crash into each other. John drew his hand back quickly, feeling slightly embarrassed, however Sherlock just looked up at John with his green eyes sparkling. His lips parted in preparation to say something but instead he merely let out a small “sorry”.

John shifted himself into a more comfortable position, his knees tucked up underneath his chin as he watched Sherlock take him through each step, explaining each movement with intricate detail, enjoying the way Sherlock’s pupils turned his once green eyes nearly black with excitement. John began to feel more and more comfortable with the thought of learning the dance as Sherlock spoke, not because he understood it more, but because he knew Sherlock wouldn’t let him be left behind in learning each step perfectly.

“John, I’m going to do something now that you must trust me with again.” Sherlock then said, looking at John seriously.

John regarded Sherlock before nodding his approval. At this, Sherlock leaned forward – _Jesus, he’s going to kiss me,_ John immediately thought – and pulled one of John’s feet into his lap, undoing his shoe laces. _Oh_.

“I wouldn’t be able to concentrate if you continued wearing these,” he explained, gently prying one shoe from his left foot. He then removed John’s sock, stuffing it inside of his lone shoe. “You’ll feel better for it, trust me.”

“I trust you,” John answered quietly, allowing Sherlock to quietly manoeuvre John’s legs and feet.

The motion of removing John’s shoes and socks so he was left with bare feet felt incredibly intimate and the feeling was increased when Sherlock’s soft hands touched his bare skin, almost massaging the sole of his foot, before he placed his foot back and moved onto John’s right. Doing the same motion, Sherlock’s firm pressure felt incredibly pleasant on his weary feet. Once he had removed his last sock, storing it away, Sherlock left John’s foot sitting in his lap, resting his hand on his bare skin for a moment, before he moved it back to its original position. Silently, John moved his legs into a cross-legged position and leaned forward, starting the same motions on Sherlock’s feet.

“I can’t be the only one looking like a plant pot in bare feet, Sherlock.” He stated logically, pulling Sherlock’s shoes from his feet and then his socks.

Sherlock’s feet were soft (of course) and perfect. John had never thought of feet falling under the category of “perfect” before, but somehow, Sherlock’s did just that. He had never been a fan of feet before, but Sherlock’s skin felt so soft that he had to resist the urge to kiss along the arch of them – he wondered whether doing that would elicit soft moans from Sherlock’s mouth.

Once both of their feet were shoe-less, Sherlock rose from where he was sitting and held out a hand to John, helping him up. They ended up face to face, inches from each other. Sherlock’s hand stayed on John’s as they looked at each other; John’s eyes watching Sherlock’s lips as his tongue flicked out, wetting them slightly. _Kiss him_ _kiss him kiss him_ , John’s brain seemed to be screaming. Instead, John pulled his hand from Sherlock’s and he cleared his throat, breaking the tension. Sherlock took a step back, suddenly realising how close in proximity he was to John and feeling slightly nervous.

“Right,” Sherlock announced, spinning around to move into the middle of the room. “First step goes as follows.”

John spent the next forty minutes tirelessly going through the motions of the first half of their dance, feeling slightly frustrated at his inability to coordinate his feet with his hands. Sherlock would regularly come up rather close to John, using his hands to move certain body parts in the correct way to show John how it was meant to be done, all the while telling John how wonderfully he was doing. At one point, Sherlock boldly moved in so close to John their noses were almost touching, using his bare foot to push his legs open a bit more, Sherlock maintaining delicious eye contact as he did so, one eyebrow quirked almost as if to say “I dare you to make the next move”. John stumbled slightly so he had to grab onto the front of Sherlock’s shirt, pulling him in so their bodies were touching.

“You okay?” Sherlock breathed, his hand coming to rest on John’s, holding it in place on his chest.

“Yeah,” John panted, looking up at Sherlock. “Thanks.”

Sherlock nodded, moving away to show John another movement, his cheeks flushed.

By the end of their lesson, John was desperate to kiss him, but he held himself back, repeating to himself that he was _engaged_ to _Mary_ who would be waiting at home for him. And could he really face her if he had just come home after kissing someone else? He wasn’t so sure.

\--

At work the next day, John couldn’t stop thinking about all the moments held between Sherlock and himself. The thick tension in the air as Sherlock held onto John and moved in and out of his space. Sherlock was electric and John couldn’t stop himself from feeling the delicious shock to his core when Sherlock’s fingers brushed his bare skin. John was lost in thought after a client had just left when he heard a knock on his door. Marlene, his receptionist, popped her head around the door.

“There’s someone here to see you,” she declared. “Doesn’t have an appointment, but says you know him?”

John, confused, got up and went out into the foyer to find Sherlock Holmes standing, slightly awkward, in the middle of the room, a carton of … was that _strawberries_ in his hand?

“Wh-what are you doing here?” John asked, suddenly very aware of the fact that Sherlock Holmes _,_ the man he was very nearly having an _affair_ with, was at his work. The fact that everyone who worked with him knew his girlfriend and would think it suspicious if he acted the way he usually did around Sherlock made it ten times worse.

“I brought you a snack,” Sherlock offered, smiling. He briefly added, his face growing slightly red: “You look very handsome in your work attire, John.”

John glanced at Marlene, who had returned to her desk. She was watching the pair with great curiosity, wondering at who this attractive, peculiar man was. John quickly ushered Sherlock into his office, wanting to get out of earshot of Marlene, who had the biggest mouth John had ever encountered.  All you had to do was tell one thing to Marlene and somehow everyone within a ten mile radius would know about it within the hour.

“What are you doing here?” John asked once they were in the privacy of his office, not wanting to sound panicked, but instead coming off as curt and rude.

“I thought you would enjoy some strawberries,” Sherlock answered, looking slightly hurt at the less than warm welcome. “You text me earlier saying you felt like them, so here they are.”

John accepted the strawberries, putting them on his desk with a quick thank you. The two were still standing awkwardly in his office, neither of them feeling very comfortable at all. Sherlock could feel the awkwardness radiating from John as he stood across from him.

“How—how did you know where my work is?” John asked, almost at a whisper.

“You … you told me, remember?” Sherlock was becoming more uncomfortable as time went on, understanding now that him showing up unannounced was slightly presumptuous on his part. “But I have to, uh, meet a friend anyway, so I can’t stay.” He lied.

John latched onto that, already making his way to the door to show Sherlock out. “Uh, yeah, thanks for the strawberries, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, leaving the practice, feeling utterly mortified. This was the first man in many years who he felt he actually had a chance with and somehow, in those few minutes, he had fucked it all up.

John stood in his doorway watching Sherlock go – he felt terrible and slightly dejected. John had told Sherlock he would love to show him where he worked, but that was not how he wanted it to go. Looking over at Marlene, she was regarding John with raised eyebrows.

“How’s Mary, John?” she commented, not breaking eye contact with him. She bared her teeth in a sickly sweet smile.

“ _Excuse me_?” John asked, knowing exactly how she read the situation between John and Sherlock. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she had her ear up against the door while they were alone together.

“I said, how’s Mary? Your _fiancé_?” she repeated.

“Marlene, I don’t exactly know what you’re insinuating here, but think you’ve got some paperwork to finish up. Best get onto that.” John ordered, scowling at her.

Marlene blushed a deep shade of beet red, turning back to her computer hurriedly.

When John arrived home, he was not in a good mood. He felt bad for treating Sherlock so terribly, worried that Marlene was going to go around telling people about the mysterious man who seemed to affect John Watson so much, and the fact that Mary was still acting cold with him did nothing to help the situation. He knew he was the last person who should be upset in this situation, but that didn’t stop him from feeling just plain _pissed off_ about it all.

Sitting down to dinner, John pushed his potatoes around on his plate, not feeling very hungry at all. He kept thinking about the fact that he had been so utterly rude to Sherlock and the possibility that he may have just dashed his chance with him.

Mary sat opposite, watching with annoyance at how childish he was being. Was he really still upset over their tiff yesterday? He had no right to be upset considering _he_ was the one in the wrong.

“Oh stop playing with your food, John! You’re a bloody child!” Mary suddenly burst out, slamming her fork down on the table.

“ _Don’t_ yell at me, Mary,” John spoke low, warning her that he was ready to argue if she really wanted to start something.

“You’ve been in a mood all bloody day, so don’t act like I’m the one in the wrong. And if I want to yell, I’ll bloody YELL!” Mary challenged, standing up from the table, taking her half eaten plate of food with her.

“Look who’s being childish now!” John snapped back, following her and taking his plate with him.

“I don’t know what you’re so angry about, John, considering you’re the one who was acting like an arsehole yesterday with Joanne,” Mary angrily scraped her plate into the bin, her eyes boring into John’s face like fire.

“Oh don’t start,” John sat his plate down on the bench, deciding to forgo cleaning it so he could leave the kitchen, therefore leaving Mary to her rage. He knew it was a petty argument, but deep down it felt good to just yell for the sake of yelling.

“Yeah, that’s right, John. Just leave me to clean up as always!” Mary called after him. “You’re a bloody lazy bastard!”

John, feeling enraged, turned around to face Mary. “Why are you marrying me then, Mary? All you seem to have is malicious thoughts about me, so _please_ do me a favour and let me know if you can think of any reason we should continue with this wedding.” he spat, before moving into the living room to sit down to his laptop. John knew he had cut deep because of the silence from Mary. Usually she was quick to retort, but instead all he could hear was her cleaning dishes in the kitchen; her silence was resounding.

After ten minutes of John sorting through a few emails on his laptop, Mary made her way into the living room and threw a tea towel at John’s face.

“I’ve left the dishes for you to dry,” she snarled. “You can sleep on the couch tonight.”

After cleaning up the rest of the kitchen and finishing the emails on his computer, John finally got around to setting up the couch to sleep, shattered. He settled himself down into the blanket and closed his eyes, only to be woken up by his phone vibrating.

Sherlock:

‘ _Is everything okay, John?_

_I apologise for being presumptuous and turning up at your work unannounced._

_I hope you can forgive me._

_SH_ ’

John rubbed his eyes, feeling exhausted, but thankful to know that at least Sherlock didn’t completely hate him.

‘ _It’s all fine. I just wasn’t expecting you, is all. Next time you come, we can go out for lunch._

 _I hope you can forgive me for being a prat._ ’

Sherlock’s response came through only seconds after John had sent his. His response made John smile, deep in his heart.

‘ _It’s okay, I’ll forgive you. You’re too handsome not to forgive, John Watson_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter includes copious amounts of sexual frustration and (because I'm a sucker for awkwardness) a sad wank. ;)
> 
> Find me on tumblr [-here.-](http://www.misanthropic-acedia.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... smut ... Please note: I rarely* write smut, so my apologies if it's terrible.
> 
> *by rarely I mean, I've written it once before.
> 
> I had fun writing this, however, so I hope you guys enjoy it too.
> 
> Also: [The song featured this chapter.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o3SqUUoJjW8)

“No, no, no, this is _all wrong_!” Sherlock exclaimed, switching off the music as he watched John from the piano.

It had been half an hour of a barefooted John attempting to put what he had learned so far together with the music, but instead of it fitting together attractively like pieces of a puzzle, it more felt like he was trying to fit a round peg into a square hole. Sherlock’s once perfect curls were now becoming more distressed every time they had to stop and start the music and he was now beginning to gesture with wild, flamboyant hands.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong!” John groaned. He was frustrated as well, considering he was the one who had to repeat the moves over and over while Sherlock seemed to have criticism for everything he did. “Sherlock, I don’t know what I’m doing! This is pointless!”

Sherlock sighed, his fingers finding the bridge of his nose in his typical expression of frustration that John was becoming all too familiar with.

“Your movements are like … that of a scarecrow, John. They hold no _feeling_ , no … oomph.” He answered, moving over to the stereo and pressing a button on the front to switch to another CD that was inside. “We’re going to do an exercise that should help you understand the difference between what _you_ were doing and what someone who is _feeling_ the motions should be doing. You should be able to taste the music on your tongue as you move through it.”

 _Taste the music_? John was sure Sherlock was playing a joke on him. That, or he had just always been that pompous and John had never clued onto it before now.

As Sherlock clicked play, a woman’s sultry voice played out over the speakers, filling the room with her sweet voice. Sherlock returned to his spot leaning on the piano, looking over at John with one eyebrow raised. He looked rather cocky, John thought, wishing he could kiss the expression off his face. Somehow, with Sherlock being an arrogant prat throughout the entire lesson, John was finding himself more attracted to him than ever. Sherlock was being a bit of a brat and all John wanted to do was fuck the shit out of him to shut him up. It was frustrating to say the least, especially when those thoughts were then immediately stamped out by the thought of his wife-to-be waiting for him at home. But John was getting used to the inward arguments he would have with himself. He was also getting used to ignoring those arguments to savour just being in the moment with Sherlock.

“ _Dance_.” Sherlock commanded, gesturing vaguely.

“Sorry?” John laughed.

“John, I want you to ignore everything in the room and just _dance_. Feel every fibre of the song filling your body and really _listen_ to what it is telling you and your body. And then _move_ with those feelings.” Sherlock said, very seriously, before he turned the music up louder.

 _Well, that’s easier said than_ done. John felt incredibly stupid, standing in the middle of the room with Sherlock scrutinising him with his penetrating gaze. How was he supposed to ignore everything in the room with that man basically _eye fucking_ him from across the room? Not that John was complaining, however: he loved the way Sherlock looked at him as if he were desperate to have him then and there, but that didn’t take away the fact that John felt very exposed in his current situation.

 _“John_ ,” Sherlock’s deep voice commanded his attention. “Just try. For me.”

John breathed out, nodding determinedly, and then decided to really focus on the woman’s voice. She was singing about … drugs? … _Sex?_   Jesus, what was Sherlock trying to do to him?

Glancing quickly at Sherlock, whose inscrutable gaze was still on his face, John closed his eyes and began to sway from side to side, allowing himself to find the beat in the music, letting the woman’s soft tones guide him. Yet when he really started to _move_ , allowing himself to become softer in his motions, he was suddenly envisioning Sherlock underneath him, crying out John’s name, hands clawing down his chest. John kept his eyes closed, savouring the vision, his breath becoming heavier. The woman’s crooning continued and very quickly, John felt himself growing hard, his body moving slowly, breath escaping his lungs in deep bursts. And when he opened his eyes, Sherlock was still watching him intensely, his eyes dark, biting his lip.

John watched Sherlock for a moment before bursting out, “Oh, sod it.”

He moved forward, crossing the room in three large strides and pulled Sherlock into him roughly, one hand behind his head and the other on the small of his back, kissing him like he were starving and Sherlock was the only meal he had had in days.

Sherlock responded in kind, opening his mouth and desperately taking in John’s tongue, a small whine escaping his throat. John wrapped his fingers in Sherlock’s dark hair and with the music swelling in the room, John was feeling more frenzied in his need for Sherlock than ever. He bit down on Sherlock’s lower lip and suckled it, which elicited another whimper from Sherlock.

“Oh god,” John breathed into Sherlock’s mouth, desperate.

Sherlock could feel John’s erection through his pants and he was unable to stop himself from reaching out to feel how hard he truly was. John groaned at the small amount of friction and had to move away from his touch, else he would come undone then and there.

John turned Sherlock around and pushed him to he was leaning over the piano, his arms stretched out in front of him. Grabbing Sherlock’s hips, John grinded into his clothed erection into Sherlock’s ass, relishing the sight of Sherlock’s prone form, his shirt riding up slightly to reveal the creamy skin of the small of his back. John leaned forward, pushing up Sherlock’s shirt further, and started to place wet kisses all over the exposed area, alternating between kisses and light nibbles with his teeth. All the while, the woman crooning out her lamentation of _move baby, move baby, I’m in love_.

“John,” Sherlock moaned, his head falling forward as he used his hands for leverage to push himself back into John urgently. “John … _please_.”

“What?” John’s voice was breathy as his hands moved further up under Sherlock’s shirt, feeling his tight waist and then moving up to his shoulders, which were all hard muscle, yet small and petite. John now understood the attraction people had when they spoke about dancer’s bodies after laying his eyes on Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock moaned his name again. “I … I need you …”

_Oh god._

Sherlock turned around and roughly grabbed John by the hand, pulling him around to the seat of the piano and pushing him down so he was sitting. Sherlock stood over him and used one of his feet to push John’s legs open further so he could stand in between them and leaned in, resting his hands either side of John so they sat on the piano keys behind him, sending a noisy mess of chords echoing through the studio. The noise mixed with the music that was still playing creating a frenzy of sounds that seemed to match the passion John and Sherlock were currently displaying. Kissing John deeply, Sherlock’s tongue searched his mouth, wanting to taste every inch of him.

John’s hands found Sherlock’s belt buckle, shaking slightly as he quickly unfastened his pants. At this stage Sherlock and John were breathing heavily into each other’s mouths and when John reached inside of Sherlock’s trousers and his hand found his already rock hard member that was leaking with pre-come, Sherlock gasped into John’s mouth. The noise he made was almost enough to make John climax then and there.

“Oh, John … take me …” Sherlock whined, resting his forhead on John’s and closing his eyes.

John slowly continued stroking him, watching his face as he did so which was contorting into an almost pained expression, the wrinkle in his nose that John loved so much making an appearance. “Where are your manners, Sherlock?” John admonished.

“ _Please._ ” Sherlock breathed. “Christ … _please, John. Please_.”

 _Fuck_. The way Sherlock was begging John was too much: his voice needy and small, mingling with slight gasps. John had never experienced something so sexual in his life and they weren’t even undressed yet. The music had finished, leaving their heavy breathing the only melody to be heard.

“Oh my god, Sherlock,” John breathed, his hand still on Sherlock’s cock. “You have no idea how much I want you. What I have thought about doing to you. _God_ you’re beautiful.”

Truthfully, John wanted to tell Sherlock about all the nasty things he had fantasized about doing to him, but he was wary of scaring him off too soon. So instead, he continued to stroke Sherlock’s cock, delighting in the soft moans coming from his throat.

 _Stop_. John’s inner voice was telling him, but he couldn’t. He had wanted this for weeks. He had been holding back for weeks. He had been putting up with this need, attempting to ignore it, for _weeks._ And god help him, he wasn’t going to give up this moment.

Except that nasty little voice in his head was now screaming: _Stop now, before it’s too late. Remember Mary. Remember your fiancé._

Sherlock’s moans were echoing through the studio, which was now void of music. John didn’t want to stop; he didn’t want to give in to his conscience. He was sick of listening to his conscience. And yet now, with his thoughts roaming to Mary, his vigour had suddenly left him and he was left feeling empty and guilty. He moved away from Sherlock, pushing past, and stood with his back to him, his face in his hands.

 “John?” Sherlock whispered, quickly doing up his pants and coming over to John, who was trying to compose himself. Sherlock placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “ _John_ , did I do something wrong?”

“No, no, of course not,” John turned to face Sherlock, placing his hand on his cheek; his lips were still wet and John had to stop himself from leaning in again to taste them once more. “You’re perfect … it’s just …”

“ _What_?” Sherlock urged him, feeling slightly lightheaded.

“I …” John couldn’t tell him. He just couldn’t. He wanted to shout and scream and tell him he was engaged to someone who he wasn’t sure he even loved and he didn’t know what to do about it. He wanted to tell him that he wanted to be with him instead of his current girlfriend, but instead he let another lie escape his lips. “I just don’t want our first time to be like … _this_. When I have you, I want all of you, not some desperate fuck in your dance hall. I can’t do this.”

Sherlock chucked, low and heavy. “John, I don’t care where we do this, just as long as it’s with you. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for this moment? Please stay.”

Sherlock’s voice sounded forlorn and small, and the way he was looking at him made John feel like his breath had escaped him. Sherlock was falling for him. It was so obvious. He felt as if he were watching a car crash in slow motion – unable to stop it and unable to look away.

“I have to go,” he whispered, his hand dropping from Sherlock’s face. “I … I have to go.”

John turned away, not wanting to look at Sherlock for fear he might stay longer, and left. It was only when he was sitting in his cab, heading home, that he felt his eyes welling up. Yes, it was obvious Sherlock was falling for John. But it was only now that John realised he was actually falling for Sherlock as well.

“You okay, mate?” the cabbie looked at John in the rear view mirror.

John didn’t answer, instead he angrily brushed away the few tears on his cheeks and watched the houses pass out of the window. How could he have let this happen? It wasn’t meant to be this way. He was supposed to be learning to dance for his fiancé, going home to her, getting _married_ to her. And yet all he wanted to do was run away, into the arms of someone else.

 _God, I need a drink_.

When John returned home, Mary was engrossed in an episode of her favourite cooking show, watching it on her tablet in the kitchen, flour dusting her cheeks as she followed the directions from the chef on screen. She looked as beautiful as ever, a deep frown gracing her forehead as she concentrated on the screen. Pausing the programme when John entered, she gleefully held up her mixing bowl, sending flour flying.

“Battenburg!” she exclaimed happily.

John smiled weakly, pulling a glass and a bottle of whiskey from their liquor cabinet and pouring himself a rather large glass. Taking three deep swigs, he topped it up before moving over to Mary to examine the contents of her bowl.

“Hard day, love?” Mary queried in regards to his need for hard liquor.

“Yeah, you could say that,” John answered, taking another swig of his drink.

“Well, I was thinking, since it’s Friday, we could do fish and chips for dinner and cake to finish,” Mary gestured to her baking again. “That should make things a little brighter, yeah?”

John wanted to believe it would be as simple as deep fried food and cake, but he knew from experience that life was never that black and white, and this situation with Sherlock wouldn’t simply just disappear. Frankly he didn’t want it to disappear, he wanted way more than what he got that afternoon.

As the night wore on, John continued with his whiskey, soon becoming quite drunk. He sat on the couch next to Mary, the television becoming more blurred with each sip he took. She had bought a bottle of wine and was down to her last glass, which had made her slightly tipsy as well. She was sitting next to John, her toes tucked underneath his butt for warmth, attempting to pay attention to whatever they were watching, but ending up with her eyes on him, her thoughts roaming.

“You still haven’t shown me your dance skills,” she stated happily, a slight slur in her voice. “You’ve been having your lessons for a few weeks. I think it’s time for you to show me what you’ve got, John.”

John blinked slowly, turning to look at her – his brain was processing her words slower than usual. His words came out even slower: “Mm … I’m not ready yet. It’s hard …” What was hard? The dancing itself or concentrating with Sherlock Holmes in the room?

“Can’t you just show me … a little bit?” Mary was now leaning into John, her hands perched on his thigh, a smile on her face. “ _Ple-ease_?”

John shook his head emphatically. “Nope … no. Not yet.”

Mary eyes narrowed playfully and she leapt from her seat, grabbing onto John’s hand, pulling her up with him. “Come on, Mr. Watson. You’re going to dance with your wife to be.”

“Oh, no … Mary, no.” John protested, half-heartedly pulling away from her.

Mary’s grip was resolute and she pulled him into her arms, humming a tune as she began to sway with him, her arms around his neck. John put his hands on her waist, succumbing to her attempts. He followed her movements as she turned her head and laid it on his chest, her humming low and tuneless. He lowered his head, placing his nose in her hair – it smelled of coconut shampoo and perfume. The scent reminded him of the first night he had spent with Mary all those years ago – they were both drunk at the time and John wasn’t able to last due to the whiskey in his system, however Mary had stayed, saying she was enjoying herself regardless of whether he was able to perform or not. They had ended up in bed: legs tangled together, his arms around her, nose in her hair. He was happy. In those first moments, he wouldn’t have dreamed he would be in the situation he had put himself in now.

Mary raised her head and kissed John, her hands moving up into his hair. He closed his eyes and kissed her back, desperately searching for the spark he had once felt. She moved her hands to his belt buckle and began to undo his trousers, a giggle escaping her lips.

“John Watson,” she murmured into his mouth. “Your dancing skills have improved.”

John’s smile ghosted over his lips before quickly turning into a gasp as her hands moved down into his pants, gripping onto his cock. The alcohol mixed with his turbulent thoughts was making it difficult for him to focus on the task at hand and Mary soon realised her attempt to come onto him was futile.

“Too much whiskey,” John whispered, as Mary looked up at him with a pout. “Sorry, love.”

“Come to bed, John.”

She turned away from him, moving to their bedroom, leaving John standing in the living room, his pants still undone. He quickly bucked up his trousers and followed Mary, stumbling as he did so. Of course he wanted to sleep with her. Of course he wanted to feel the comfort of her wrapped around him, but truthfully, his heart wasn’t in it. And no amount of alcohol could change that. Entering the bedroom, Mary was sitting on the bed waiting for him, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Come here,” she spoke softly. “I can help.”

John let out a sigh, coming over to Mary and standing above her. Mary stood so she could pull his over his head, before moving onto his pants, unbuckling them once again and pulling them down so he was standing in just his cotton briefs. She sat back down on the bed and began trailing kisses over his stomach, her arms wrapping around to his backside. John closed his eyes, attempting to focus on the feeling of her lips on his skin. Only, all he could think about was the fact that he wished it were someone else placing kisses all over his body. _Fucking hell_.

“Mary,” John breathed. “Mary …”

“Mmm?” she purred, low in her throat. “Is this helping?”

“Mary … this … this isn’t going to work,” he stepped away from her. “Sorry … It’s just … not going to happen tonight.”

Mary flung herself back on the bed in mock dramatics, her arms lying out sideways so she was taking up the entire bed. “ _Fine_ ,” she sighed, closing her eyes. “I guess I’ll just have to suffer, then.”

John let out a small chuckle as he moved into the bathroom.

“What’re you doing now?” Mary sat up, watching him from the bed.

“I’m going to shower,” John answered, turning the faucet on in the shower.

As John shut himself in the bathroom, allowing the water to heat up, he leaned on the sink, looking at himself in the mirror.

” _Jesus christ_ ,” he whispered to himself. “Get yourself together, mate.”

After his lesson with Sherlock and now this, he was feeling pent up and frustrated. Mary was bloody gorgeous and he loved her, what on earth was going on in his brain that he couldn’t get it up for her?

_Sherlock._

John thought back to Sherlock’s breathy moans as they kissed. His pert ass as he leaned over the piano; John had wanted to rip off his pants and bury himself deep inside of him then and there. He thought about Sherlock’s needy begging as John had his hands down his pants, the feeling of Sherlock’s length in his hand. And suddenly John realised he was growing hard thinking about him.

Attempting to shake off the feeling, John stripped out of his underwear and stepped into the hot shower, allowing it to run over his face and down his body. But instead of sobering him up, the feeling of the heat on his body and the water running over his shaft made him more aroused.

He was determined not to give in and touch himself, even though he was aching to, but that still didn’t stop his thoughts from roaming to Sherlock again and pretty soon, he was leaning with his hands against the wall, the water cascading down his back, eyes screwed shut as his cock throbbed desperately.

He could picture Sherlock in his head, the way he looked when John had reached into his pants and stroked down his length. The soft pouting of his pink lips as he gasped out John’s name. The desperate trill in his voice as John caressed him, eliciting small whines from his mouth.

 _Fuck_. John had to touch himself. He had to. He felt like he was going to faint from the pressure building in his cock.

It only took one solid strokes before John was coming undone in the shower, seed spilling from him, only to disappear down the drain. John bit down on one hand to stop himself from crying out, feeling like he was going to cry out Sherlock’s name. Instead a muffled groan escaped his throat as his orgasm rattled through his body. In that moment all he could think about was Sherlock.

As the effects of his orgasm slowly melted away, John lowered himself to sit down in the shower. He looked at his hand where he had bitten down and saw the fleshy skin pooling with a little bit of blood. He was exhausted, still a little bit drunk, and … _crying_?

“ _Fuck_ ,” John swore, brushing away his tears desperately, only to have them replaced with more.

How could he have become so lost? All he wanted was to disappear and have all of this be left behind. He didn’t want to be sobbing on the floor in his shower with his fiancé right next door after jerking himself off in the shower, fantasizing about another man. _Christ_. John wiped away his tears once again, feeling embarrassed.

John hadn’t turned on the ventilation system, so the bathroom was now filling with steam, resulting in him feeling slightly dizzy when he stood up. He held onto the wall for support as he dried himself off with one hand, scrubbing hard at his skin with the towel. There was a light knock at the door and Mary’s voice softly filtered through the wood.

“You okay? You’ve been in there a while.”

“Uh, yeah I’ll be out in a second,” John answered, quickly wrapping the towel around his waist.

Mary was climbing back into bed when John left the bathroom; she had pulled back the covers on his side. When she settled into the covers, she patted the empty space beside her and beckoned him to join her. John perched himself on the side of the bed, water still dripping from his hair.

Mary leaned in towards John, a small smile on her face. “I can’t wait to be Mrs. Watson,” she murmured, placing one hand on his cheek.

John was a mess and he hated the fact that at her soft touch, he found himself closing his eyes and moving into it, his lips brushing her palm. He needed to be told it was all going to be okay and, somehow, Mary’s touch provided that. For a moment, John had left everything behind and he only existed in this moment, allowing himself to not feel like his whole world was crashing around him.

For a moment, everything was okay again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr [-here.-](http://www.misanthropic-acedia.tumblr.com)
> 
> Please remember to comment your thoughts! I always love hearing what you all think and it's good to know if I'm falling short anywhere.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The snake and the forbidden fruit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like this one!
> 
> Find my updated 1901 Spotify playlist [here.](https://open.spotify.com/user/1245955049/playlist/7CgD2pvEfJiI4E5TCT0619)

Four weeks. That’s all that was left until John was going to get married to Mary. That’s all that was left before he had to decide whether to continue the farce that was his relationship with both Mary and Sherlock, or tell the truth to both of them and face the consequences. Four weeks. He told himself he would have decided by then what to do, when really he was nowhere near figuring it out. It felt good to pretend, however.

Seeing Mary scribble addresses on envelopes and pass them over to John for him to seal made it all the more real. All those people were going to be showing up to watch them take the leap into so-called wedded bliss. His sister was going to be there. His mum and dad. Mary and John’s closest friends. The thought made him feel sick to his stomach.

“You okay, love? Looking a bit peaky,” Mary said, carefully writing down the address for John’s sister on an envelope.

John shrugged, smiling at her as he took the envelope and wet the seal. “No, I’m okay. Just thinking about how real this is … it’s a little unnerving.” John answered – he was, for once, being truthful.

Mary happily, her light eyes twinkling. “I know,” she answered, excited. “It’s you and me forever after this. Mr and Mrs Watson.”

John jumped as his phone started vibrating in his pocket – Sherlock’s name was flashing up on the screen with a call. Hurriedly standing up from the table, John muttered something about taking a work call and moved outside onto the front step so he was out of earshot.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Sherlock’s deep voice rung out and John’s heart swelled at the sound. “How are you?”

“I’m …” John glanced back at the door, making sure Mary wasn’t standing at the window listening. “I’m good, now that I’m talking to you.” Another nervous glance. “I … I miss you.”

There was silence on the other end and John was sure he could hear Sherlock smiling.

“I miss you too,” he answered and John was now certain he was smiling from just the sound of his voice through the phone. His voice sounded brighter when he was smiling.

“Why the phone call? Not that I’m complaining of course.” John was walking back and forth from his front gate to the front door, a small smile on his lips. Christ, he was acting like a bloody smitten school girl.

“John,” Sherlock sounded serious. “I have to ask you something.”

“Go on …” John answered hesitantly.

There was a sigh from Sherlock before he blurted out a bunch of words, making it impossible for John to gather what he was saying. “I’mgongtwointervewaniwanyoutocome—“

“Woah, woah, slow down. I have no idea what you just said.”

Another sigh. “John. I … I am going for a job interview on Sunday. In Sussex. I want you to come with me. For support.”

“Wait … job interview? What job interview? Sussex?” John was suddenly very aware that he was almost panicking. If Sherlock got a job in Sussex, that meant that he would move there. That meant that John would either not be able to see him anymore, or somehow he would have to either move to be with him or travel back and forth between London and there. He couldn’t believe Sherlock would leave him behind so easily.

“I told you I was applying for a job there.” Sherlock’s reply was blunt.

“So … you’d be moving there if you got it?” Now John definitely was acting like a needy school girl. He was suddenly insanely resentful that Sherlock would find it so easy to just up and leave. And he was despairing at the thought that he would do that without him. “But what about your studio here? What about the life you’ve built here?”

_What about me?_

“John, nothing’s set in stone just yet. It’s just an interview. Did you not hear me when I asked you to come? I … I want you to … I want you to come with me.” Sherlock suddenly sounded very small. “Please.”

“Of course,” John responded immediately. He felt it would mean the ultimate demise of their relationship if Sherlock got the job and moved there, but deep down, he knew he would follow Sherlock anywhere. He wanted to be with him, even if it meant travelling to Sussex and back every week. Somehow, he would make it work. “Just tell me when, I’ll come.”

“Sunday. We can stay overnight at a bed and breakfast.” Sherlock’s reply was breathless and John had an inkling that he might have literally jumped for joy.

_Flamboyant bloody twink_ , John thought fondly.

“Will you be able to organise work off for it?” Sherlock spoke eagerly.

“Yeah, I’ll manage.”

It wasn’t work that John was worried about – he was more worried about what he would tell Mary. Already his mind was running through a million different lies in his head.

“Can I see you before we leave? Tomorrow?” Sherlock asked. “I still need to take you shoe shopping because god knows I can’t be seen with you if you’ll be wearing those _awful_ shoes.”

John laughed. “Enough about the shoes already! Yes, you can take me shoe shopping. I’ll text you in the morning, yeah?”

John said his goodbyes and hung up the phone, feeling elated. He was excited to go on a trip with Sherlock, even if it did mean the possibility of him moving. It was only when he turned to go back inside, putting his phone in his pocket, that he realised the reality of the situation. _What was he going to tell Mary?_

John’s mind filtered through every agonising detail of what he would tell her until he fell upon an idea: only a month and a half ago there was an outbreak of a new polio-type virus in England, which was fatal to children. D68 had been rampant among schools, resulting in a few hundred losses, before they got it under control, John having to deal with the aftermath in his area. There were still a few cases filtering around, but nowhere near as bad as before. He could claim there was an outbreak in Sussex and he had to travel there to help with the control of it, as he had done in London. He was sure this would work, considering Mary knew all about the previous outbreak and understood how serious it could be.

Clearing his throat, he attempted a grimace that resembled stress as he moved into the house and back to where Mary was finishing up on the last few envelopes.

“You okay?” she looked up from what she was doing, noting the expression on his face.

“Yeah … well, no actually.” John never knew he could be such an excellent liar and if he weren’t feeling so guilty, he would almost be impressed with his performance.

“What is it?” Mary stood from the table, concerned now.

“D68.” John’s voice was grave.

Mary’s was shocked and she put her hand to her mouth, understanding the implications of what that meant. “Where?”

“Sussex,” John sighed. It was now or never. “I … I have to go there on Sunday. Help out.”

“What? How bad is it?” Mary urged, feeling shaken.

“Bad enough that they need me, apparently. Overnight.”

“But … the wedding! It’s only four weeks away, John. We still need to confirm the caterers, send out the invitations, _and_ meet with the photographer – we were meant to do that next week! Can they not just send someone else?” Mary was harried, suddenly into cleaning mode as she cleared the table of stationary and piled up the stacks of invitations, the stress evident on her face.

“Yeah, I told Kent that, but he said there was no way of avoiding it. I can drop off the invitations to be posted tomorrow.” Somehow, with every step further into the lie John went, the more comfortable with it he became.

He had never been a liar, but now it seemed he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t remember the last day that went by without a lie slipping from his lips.

The snake that had wrapped itself around his throat was tightening its grip.

_Or maybe I am the snake._

\--

John had left early the next day, a thick stack of invitations tucked inside his jacket safely. He was planning on heading to the shopping centre and posting out the invitations before he met with Sherlock for a coffee and (in Sherlock’s words) an upgrade in shoe attire. John still didn’t understand what the problem was with his shoes, but somehow, out of guilt, they were now stored safely at the back of his closet. John was unable to wear them without hearing Sherlock’s theatrical laments over how simply _horrid_ they were.

Standing in the post office, he handed over the stack of wedding invitations and money to the teenage assistant at the till, feeling as if he was sealing his fate in doing so.

“Do you want them tracked, sir?” the girl’s voice was bored, her expression echoing that. “People do that with wedding invitations, so …”

John nodded his assent.

“That’ll be an extra five quid,” she droned, extending her hand expectantly.

John rolled his eyes at the petulant girl, reaching into his pocket and feeling around for the loose change he had stashed away. Finding his pocket empty, he resigned himself to using his card.

“Need some change?”

John’s stomach lurched as the voice of Sherlock Holmes came from behind him. Turning automatically, John quickly positioned himself in front of the counter, shielding his current transaction. Sherlock was wrapped in his coat with the collar up, green eyes examining John with ease as he shook out his windswept hair which was in fluffy, soft curls. John could see the people in the line behind peering at the tall, statuesque man with something akin to curiosity – the same curiosity John had felt when he had laid eyes upon him for the first time. So it wasn’t just him that could be automatically swept up by this man, but it was John and only John who had managed to acquire his affections.

“You’re early,” John stated simply, feeling troubled.

“So are you,” Sherlock answered simply.

John gestured vaguely at the post office. “Had to run some errands.”

The girl behind John cleared her throat impatiently.

“Right. I’d best finish up here. Meet you outside?” John urgently wanted Sherlock to leave so he could finish up posting the invitations without him seeing what they were and his best bet was to ask Sherlock to wait elsewhere.

Sherlock didn’t miss a beat and narrowed his eyes with a hint of suspicion at the odd request for Sherlock to leave. “You’d rather I wait out in the cold, John?”

“What? Uh, no. I’ll just finish up with this, maybe just go take a seat while I do? It’s a bit boring, really. _Banking_.” John lied.

Once he left to go sit and wait, John turned back to the cashier who was waiting, her arms crossed and one eyebrow quirked. John pulled out his card and indicated he was ready to finish up.

 “I’ll be sure to have your … _banking_ processed within the day, sir.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” John suddenly felt defensive at her cutting insinuation – she hadn’t missed a single detail in the few minutes he had been standing at the counter. First his receptionist and now this girl … was he really that obvious or were they just incredibly perceptive?

“You can insert your card,” she answered plainly, ignoring him.

“Yeah … thanks.” John didn’t hide his distaste for her.

After he had finished up, John and Sherlock walked out into the street, falling into step together. John was still feeling uneasy about his near miss with the invitations and he couldn’t help but keep seeing the teenage girl’s face as she called him out on his lie. He took a deep breath, sucking the wind in between his teeth in an attempt to clear his thoughts.

The wind was bitter and cold, a sign that autumn was nearly in full force, and Sherlock’s nose was shaded with a rosy pink. John had a sudden urge to kiss it, but knew he wouldn’t dare for fear of someone he knew spotting him do it in such an open space that wasn’t very far from his home.

“I think here will do,” Sherlock spoke quietly, indicating a small, bustling café that was across the road from the set of department stores they were going to be visiting.

John picked a quiet, relatively secluded table in the back corner of the café, allowing Sherlock to go ahead to the counter and order two coffees for them to takeaway. He watched him stand in line at the counter, his hand coming up to his hair and mussing it so his wind swept look was replaced with tidy, small ringlets. When he returned, he sat down opposite John, his inscrutable gaze falling on him.

“What are you thinking?” John blurted out, attempting to decipher Sherlock’s expression, but failing. He was, as he always will be, an enigmatic masterpiece of actions and reactions that would only be allowed to come forth when Sherlock permitted it.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, his lips tasting the words before he allowed them to fall from his mouth. “I’m thinking about kissing you,” he answered purely.

John covertly glanced around the room, weighing up the possibility of someone he knew seeing them, before deciding.

“So come here and do it, then.”

Sherlock smiled, an astonishingly pure and free expression, before standing up and moving into the chair next to John, leaning in close. John kept his gaze trained on Sherlock, wanting to relish this moment, and as Sherlock pressed his soft lips smoothly into his, he felt like he were suddenly lighter. John kissed back, allowing his hands to move into Sherlock’s curls, feeling the smile under Sherlock’s lips expand. John was smiling too, allowing himself to truly be in the moment, forgetting his worries about people scrutinising the pair. _Let them look_ , he thought defiantly. He almost wished, deep in the well of his mind, that someone he knew was there to see the pair, so they would run back and tell Mary and everything would finally be out in the open, come what may.

Sherlock pulled back and made a motion to move back into his chair, but John held his hand, stopping him.

“No, stay. I want you to sit here,” he said.

Sherlock chuckled low in his throat, before settling himself comfortably on the chair closest to John, angled so he was facing him.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” Sherlock spoke quietly, his eyes watching the barista behind the counter rush to prepare orders.

“Get used to what?”

“You.”

Sherlock’s eyes fell on John, a depth of emeralds and oceans and pearlescent blue; somehow John was forever discovering new shades throughout them and at this moment, he was enthralled.

“You can do that whenever you want, you know.” John responded, before pausing for a beat and continuing: “You can have _me_ whenever you want, Sherlock.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, John,” Sherlock started, his eyes in a constant motion of gracing over John’s features as if he were memorising the lines on his face, before moving to look at the table, abashed. “I’m not one for letting my heart tell the truth. My world is very black and white. But now …”

“Now?” John urged.

“Now … it’s almost as if … I’ve found another version of myself when I’m with you. Another world where … I can exist in colour. I don’t want to lose that.”

John’s heart seemed to swell as he watched this beautiful man profess his truth to him. Sherlock blinked up at John as he grasped onto Sherlock’s hand, which was sitting on the countertop, balled into a fist, betraying his nerves.

“Sherlock, are you thinking of Sussex?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded, a near invisible motion. His voice came out in a whisper: “Yes.”

“Listen,” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “I would go with you … _anywhere_. I don’t want to not be a part of your life. I want to experience every shade of blue and every heartbeat … every _touch_ you have to offer me, I want to be there in it with you. I want to feel every moment with you. I want to dance every dance with you. I would follow you … _anywhere_.”

John didn’t know why, but he suddenly couldn’t stop the words from escaping his lips. He had been holding it in for so long, that he was almost revealing it to himself as well as Sherlock.

“Even if it means Sussex?” Sherlock asked timidly.

“Even Sussex.” John reassured him, squeezing his hand one last time.

The waiter arrived at their table, carrying two takeaway cappuccinos. He glanced at the pair holding hands and smiled sympathetically, before setting their drinks down on the table and moving away to continue waiting tables.

John lifted his cappuccino to his lips, taking a sip – it was an average coffe, he would have much preferred tea. “So … just how likely do you think it will be that you get accepted for this job?”

“Very likely, I think. I’m acquainted with the manager, so I have a feeling he will put in a good word for me.”

“Right,” John nodded.

“The interview is at 9:30am at the studios, so if we catch the 7:30 train tomorrow morning, we should get there in enough time,” Sherlock continued.

He was talking to himself more than John, but John was happy to let him ramble, enjoying the way Sherlock’s eyes would rapidly dart around as if he were reading something in front of his eyes. He watched his lips form around the words, faster than he could think was possible, yet still precisely perfect in their diction. _God he’s perfect._

“I’m unsure of what choice of clothing to wear … perhaps my Hardy Amies suit. Yes, I think that will do. You need to help me decide what shoes to wear as well … oh, who am I kidding? I’ve seen your taste in shoes. No, I’ll have to decide myself. Perhaps while I’m in the meeting you could check in at the bed and breakfast I’ve booked … John?”

Sherlock was suddenly very aware that John was no longer paying attention to his excited blathering, but instead he was sitting looking exceptionally gormless as he stared up at Sherlock, admiring every detail on his face.

“What-what are you doing? Why are you doing that?” Sherlock felt vulnerable – he had never seen someone look at him like that before.

“You are probably one of the most beautiful people I’ve laid eyes on.”

John seemed to only hear the words as they came out of his mouth and he was almost shocked at the fact that he had said them himself. But of course they were true. Sherlock _was_ the most beautiful person he had seen. He surpassed anything John had ever had the privilege of experiencing in real life..

Sherlock was blushing profusely, his cheeks growing a tinge of pink, and John couldn’t help but reach out and place his hand on Sherlock’s cheek, grazing his thumb over his hard cheekbone, feeling the soft, plush skin underneath his fingers. Sherlock let a small smile grace his lips and John’s heart fluttered at the sight. Suddenly, the café seemed to be deathly silent, all except for John’s beating heart and Sherlock’s shaky breath.

“Can we …” John paused, wondering at the consequences of what he was about to ask. It was only when he realised that _he didn’t care about the sodding consequences_ that he proceeded. “Can we go back to yours?” John’s voice was a low murmur, sending an expectant shiver down Sherlock’s spine. He knew what that meant.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so re: John and Mary sending out invites with only four weeks to go until their wedding ... I know four weeks is hardly ANY time with a marriage to be sending out invitations, but for the sake of the story, I’m saying four weeks. Maybe John and Mary are just super duper slack and haven’t gotten around to sending them until now, okay? Don’t judge their procrastination.
> 
> Thanks for reading, folks. See you next week <3


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have created a playlist of music that features in the story, so if you guys would like to have a listen, you can find it [here.](https://open.spotify.com/user/1245955049/playlist/7CgD2pvEfJiI4E5TCT0619) Each week, I will be adding new songs, some of which (like this week) aren't technically featured, but are a part of the story on their own merit. Feel free to follow!
> 
> Also: John is a bit not good. Sorry bout that.

They rode in the cab to Sherlock’s home on Baker Street in silence, the air electric with expectation. Without thinking, John placed his hand on Sherlock’s thigh, his fingers tracing out small shapes into the tender flesh that lay underneath the expensive fabric. There was a palpable intake of breath from Sherlock as he felt John’s fingers continue their advances, slowly moving to his inner thigh, inches from his groin. Sherlock wriggled in his seat as John changed from tracing shapes, to tracing out words: first, Sherlock’s name, and then his own. He increased in pressure, a smirk gracing his lips as he watched Sherlock from the corner of his eye becoming more restless. John saw the driver glance into the rear view mirror and avert his eyes immediately, feeling awkward at being privy to this private moment between the two men. They soon came to a stop and John removed his hand, eager to move inside.

“Six quid,” the cabbie said, eyeing them from the rear view mirror again.

Sherlock, entirely distracted, let out a babble of unintelligible words, his face flushed deep red.

“Uh – sorry,” he took a deep breath, trying to quell his wild thoughts so he could coherently form sentences together and pay the driver.

John placed a hand on his arm, settling the tremor in his hand as he reached inside his pocket for his money. Raising his eyebrows, he didn’t break eye contact with Sherlock, and handed over his own cash before Sherlock could with the driver who grunted his thanks. He was enjoying this game of distraction with Sherlock, who was melting into his hands easier than he thought would be possible.

John found Sherlock standing on the sidewalk when he stepped out of the car, waiting.

“Must you be so _distracting_?” Sherlock reproached once John was standing in front of him.

“But it’s so much fun.”

“Yes, that may be but—“

John grabbed a fistful of the front Sherlock’s coat and pulled him into him, pressing their lips together, hard. At this stage, he didn’t care who saw the pair together – he only knew he needed Sherlock like he needed the blood that was currently pumping violently through his veins. He smiled into Sherlock’s mouth, using his teeth to gently pull at his lower lip, prompting a whining groan to escape from Sherlock.

“And how can I resist when you always end up producing the most delicious sounds when I do things like that?” John smiled again, his mind becoming overwhelmed at the sight of Sherlock’s wet and pouting lips.

“You’re a cruel man, John Watson.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” John spoke. His tongue flicked out, licking the soft curve of Sherlock’s cupid’s bow. His voice was almost a growl. “Inside. _Now_.”

Sherlock took John by the hand, leading to the front door and as soon as it was opened, John pushed Sherlock inside, sending him back into the wall beside the door. John’s hands were on Sherlock immediately, pushing him against the wall with a loud thud, knocking Sherlock’s head against it. The wood smacked hard against his head, but Sherlock couldn’t concentrate, nor did he care, because the feeling of John’s lips on his jaw as his hands roamed freely was insanely distracting and the best painkiller he could ask for. Sherlock was quivering at the feeling of him suckling at the pale skin on his neck, drawing a faint pink bruise; this was everything he had been dreaming about during the restless nights he had spent at home alone. John was hungry for him, he couldn’t get enough, his hands couldn’t grasp enough flesh and –

“ _Jesus christ,_ why is this coat still in the way?!” John demanded, mirth in his voice as he fumbled with the many buttons on Sherlock’s heavy coat.

Sherlock helped him, ripping his coat off in a flurry and discarding it on the floor beside them so John could resume his ministrations, his hands grazing down Sherlock’s back. Sherlock’s eyes closed as he felt John’s fingernails, a loud moan escaping his lips.

“Oh – oh my!” A woman’s voice broke through the pair’s lustful reverie.

Sherlock let out a surprised yell, pushing John off him aggressively so he went stumbling backwards. John swore as he regained his balance, before turning to find an older woman, standing in the entryway with a pair of gloves in one hand and a cloth in the other. Her face was one of pure shock and … delight?

Sherlock cleared his throat, dabbing at his moist lips and flicking his hair to try and regain some composure. “Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse. “I’d like you to meet –“

“I know who this is!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed gleefully, flapping her gloves at John.

She put the cleaning products on a shelf next to her and moved forward, pulling John into a tight hug. Perplexed, he hugged back, patting her back lightly. She seemed unfazed by the sight she had walked in on and was already making herself comfortable with John.

“I’ve heard _so_ much about you!” she said as she moved back, holding him at arm’s length to look over him. “What a handsome catch, Sherlock! Oh, how lovely!”

“N-nice to meet you,” John stammered, wondering at who this woman could be. Sherlock had never mentioned her before and she certainly wasn’t his mother. Either way, her kindly and relaxed nature made John immediately take a likening to her.

“Yes, yes, John is handsome. I’m quite aware,” Sherlock snapped impatiently. “Now if you’ll excuse us –“ Sherlock took John’s hand and started to lead him upstairs.

“Oh _Sherlock_ ,” the woman admonished Sherlock, stopping him on his way up the stairs. “Don’t be so rude! I’ll bring up some tea.”

John looked at Sherlock who was rolling his eyes dramatically.

“I could do with a cup of tea, to be honest.” John said, realising that making Sherlock wait would be a fun game to play, and he didn’t want to offend Mrs. Hudson, of course.

Sherlock let out a groan before stomping upstairs, dragging John with him.

“I’ll be up shortly!” Mrs. Hudson called after the pair.

Flouncing into the room, Sherlock threw himself down on a couch that was sat up against the back wall, crossing his arms and legs tightly, a scowl darkening his features.

John ignored this and examined the living room, which was messier than he expected, but quaint and charming nonetheless. Throughout the room, books upon books lay in messy piles, teetering as if they were going to collapse any second. There was an easel propped up in the corner by the window with a canvas on it, the beginnings of an exquisite piece of art started with charcoal on the white material. John walked over to it and examined the piece, which was the beginnings of a shirtless, male dancer in motion, and although it was incomplete, John could feel the lyrical movement of the person on the material. It was beautiful. John noted the familiar jawline and eyes and slowly it dawned on him …

“Sherlock … is this me?” John turned to Sherlock who was still sitting on the couch, sullen, his body still tied up in a knot of elbows and knees to show his annoyance.

Sherlock untwisted himself, standing, and instead of moving _around_ the coffee table like a normal person, he smoothly stepped on top of and over it and came to stop in front of John, snatching the canvas and turning it around so John couldn’t look anymore. “Yes. It is you,” he retorted, “it’s not finished. And some might consider it _rude_ to look at another person’s unfinished work without their permission, John.”

Sherlock turned to move back onto the couch but John grabbed him by the wrist, turning him back so they were face to face.

“Oi,” John quipped. “You a bit grumpy?”

Sherlock all but pouted at John, his eyebrows knitting together to form a crease on his nose. “Of course I’m not _grumpy_!” he snapped.

John let a laugh grace his mouth; he knew exactly why Sherlock was mad at him.

“You’re mad that I told Mrs. Hudson to come up for tea, aren’t you?” John queried, knowing that was the absolute truth. “You wanted this place all to ourselves so we could continue doing this-“

John pulled Sherlock’s wrist that he was still holding onto and placed his other hand on Sherlock’s neck, his lips moving onto the exposed jugular where there was a faint pink bruise forming from his earlier assaults. He grazed his tongue up the side of Sherlock’s neck and then used his teeth to nibble the skin. Sherlock’s body melted into John’s immediately and a breathy “ _oh”_ escaped his lips.

“Hmmm,” John hummed low in his throat, allowing his lips to trace butterfly soft movement across his skin. “I’m sure –“ John placed a deliberate, tantalisingly slow kiss on his throat … “you –“ … moving down to his collarbone, teeth grazing skin ... “can wait.”

John drew away and looked at Sherlock, whose eyes were fluttering open; his was mouth parted, allowing his heavy breathing to escape his lips. When he saw John looking at him with an amused twinkle in his eyes, he changed his expression to that of nonchalance.

“Yes,” Sherlock smoothed his shirt down, clearing his throat, “well then.”

Just as he was moving off to sit back on the couch, Mrs. Hudson came to the open door, knocking with one hand, her other laden with a tray of tea. She sat the tray down on the coffee table in front of where Sherlock was sitting, and stood watching John who moved to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa. She was smiling kindly at the pair.

“Thank you,” John took one of the cups of tea and sipped – it was perfectly brewed, slightly milky but strong and hearty.

Sherlock did the same, sipping his in silence, eyes dark as they moved from John to Mrs. Hudson.

“Sherlock tells me you’re a doctor, John?” Mrs. Hudson said, still standing above the pair.

“Yes, that’s right,” John answered, “would you like a seat, Mrs. Hudson?” He made to move so the woman could sit, ignoring the audible sigh from Sherlock, but Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

“Oh, no I’m not going to stay – much too busy.” Mrs. Hudson tapped her wrist.

Sherlock sighed, placing his cup down on the saucer and turned to look Mrs. Hudson in the face. “Wonderful. Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Hudson. Perhaps you should go and finish up your cleaning or whatever you do when you’re not making tea.”

John flashed Sherlock a frown that said _rude_ and Sherlock responded with a shrug, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, don’t mind him, John,” Mrs. Hudson said, noting the look exchanged between the two men, “he can be quite rude sometimes but he’s really a big softy.”

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock’s voice was raised and he stood from his seat. “If you have nothing better to do than stand there and comment on your perception of my personality traits which are _entirely_ incorrect, I suggest you do that with your plants who will be a much better audience and leave us be!”

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson seemed to jump on the spot at this, her hands coming up to cover her chest in indignation. “I do apologise, John. Perhaps we will need to get to know one another some other time.”

Sherlock moved swiftly to the door, placing his hand gently but firmly on Mrs. Hudson’s back and guiding her out the door.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Enough of you now,” he snapped petulantly, slamming the door in her face as soon as she was over the threshold.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John reproached, “that was rude.”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered simply, as if it were the most normal thing in the word. “I was getting quite tired of her warbling. I’m much more interested in _you_.”

John quirked his eyebrow, smiling again. He found it so easy to smile when he was around Sherlock; even when he was being an arrogant prick, he still found him handsome and charming and so completely _himself_ that he couldn’t help but falling for him at the sight.

“She’s right, you know,” John said, standing.

“Who?”

John moved over to where Sherlock was standing. “Mrs. Hudson. She’s right: you are a big softy.”

Sherlock blushed, his façade of arrogance faltering. He lowered his eyes, feeling abashed.

“I love it when you do that,” John spoke softly, his hand coming up to brush Sherlock’s pink cheek. “You look so _beautiful_ when you’re acting all coy.”

John used his thumb so trail across Sherlock’s lips, feeling the soft flesh that was so pliant under his fingertips. Sherlock’s blush increased as he allowed John’s fingers to graze over his mouth, pulling his plump lower lip down slightly.

“M’not coy-“ Sherlock started to protest, but John used his finger to shush him.

“You’re coy and you know it.” John breathed, watching Sherlock’s pupils dilate as John leaned in closer. “It’s okay to be coy. I like it.”

John placed soft kisses on Sherlock’s lips, small pecks one after the other. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed, his lips pressing into John’s with each kiss, aching for more.

“I like that,” Sherlock whispered, allowing his tongue to move out and taste John’s lips.

“Where’s your bedroom?” John pulled away.

Sherlock took John by the hand for a second time that day, leading him through a slightly cluttered kitchen, down the hall and into Sherlock’s bedroom. It was immaculate and minimalistic. On the wall above the bed was a large painting, depicting a dancer, naked and emotive in his motion. He was leaning back, his muscular torso twisted in aching pain, an arrow sticking out from his heart. John wondered whether Sherlock had painted this one as well.

“Is that one of yours?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, eyes on John’s face as he took in the magnificent painting.

“It’s amazing. Who is it?” John asked.

“An old friend,” Sherlock was quiet, not offering any more information and John had a feeling this person was more than an ‘old friend’. John understood the silence from Sherlock, however, and chose not to pry into it.

John turned to Sherlock and pulled his body into his, hands on his waist. He was now suddenly apprehensive at the thought of seeing Sherlock unclothed, naked and waiting for him. He had thought about this moment for weeks, imagining how Sherlock would look as he lay down on the bed, his curls falling softly around his green eyes. He knew there was no going back from this.

Sherlock’s eyes were on John, watching his face as he took in Sherlock’s clothed form, his tongue moving out to wet his lips. Understanding the trepidation in his eyes, Sherlock moved his hands up to his own shirt and began undoing the buttons, slowly peeling it off so he was bare chested in front of John for the first time.

John took in a breath at the sight, drinking in Sherlock’s sculpted chest. He was, for lack of a better word, flawless. Dancing had proved to be a wonderful direction, creating a toned physique that made John _ache_ to look at; he wanted to kiss every inch of him. He used his fingers to trace over his stomach, moving to his nipples which were raised slightly at the sudden change in temperature, and down to the waistline of his trousers.

“ _Beautiful_ ,” John whispered, his eyes meeting Sherlock’s again.

John then began the same motion, pulling off his own jacket and shirt, and discarding them carelessly on the floor beside him. He took a moment, watching Sherlock face as his eyes roved over his chest, noting all the perfectly imperfect things about John: all the scars and blemishes and the way his muscles moved underneath his slightly tanned skin. Sherlock drew in a breath, astonished at the fact that John Watson was finally in his bedroom, getting undressed in front of him.

Sherlock silently sunk down, his mouth coming into contact with John’s torso, his tongue lapping up the taste of him. He moved down to his bellybutton and slowly kissing his way further south, and finally coming to his belt buckle. John’s head fell back, his eyes closing, because if he were to watch Sherlock doing this, he wouldn’t have been able to handle himself, nor be responsible for what he might have done next. He was excruciatingly attracted to Sherlock and his body was responding just as he thought he would. Heart racing, trousers feeling tight, sweat beginning to bead on his brow. _Fuck_.

Sherlock’s shaking hands fumbled at his belt, his nerves making him unsteady, so John helped him, unbuckling his pants so Sherlock could pull them down. They pooled around his feet and Sherlock sucked in a breath at the sight of John straining to be released from his cotton briefs, his erection obvious underneath the thin fabric. Unable to stop himself, Sherlock used his hands to cup John’s hard length, wanting him all at once, and John had to pull back, reminding himself to calm down a little.

“Slowly,” John breathed, looking down at Sherlock for the first time. His heart sung at the sight: Sherlock on his knees, looking up at John through his dark eyelashes, his eyes nearly black with need, lips parted.

John placed his hands in Sherlock’s hair, stroking him tenderly. _Wait. Calm down. Breathe_. Sherlock paused, waiting for John to become more comfortable and when John nodded his assent, Sherlock slowly pulled at John’s underwear, allowing them to fall to the ground. John’s erection sprang free and Sherlock just _had_ to touch it – he would go crazy if he couldn’t.

Slowly, he leaned forward, letting his tongue graze the underside of John’s penis and John let out an audible groan at the feeling, his hand tightening in Sherlock’s hair. He couldn’t get enough of the sight of Sherlock at his feet, so beautiful, so perfect, everything he could ever dream of. Sherlock was his and he was Sherlock’s, he saw that now, wholly and clearly.

And as Sherlock moved his hands to the base of John’s cock and moved his mouth over the head, John felt shuddering waves of _bliss_ envelop him. Sherlock kept himself there, tasting John, moving his tongue in small circles around his head, not daring to go further just yet. He knew he had to take it slow. Both Sherlock and John wanted this to last, instead of it being rushed and desperate like the last times they had nearly slept together. There was nothing stopping them from taking each other fast, but there was also nothing stopping them from savouring the moment and allowing them to feel every touch and every sigh they each had to offer.

Sherlock slowly moved his mouth down over John’s cock, taking him in his entirety, before moving back up to the head, resuming his ministrations of delicate licking and suckling. Moving down to his base again, allowing his entire mouth to suck him in, John swore loudly, his hand still entwined in Sherlock’s tanned curls.

“Come here,” John breathed, his voice cracking with strain. Sherlock continued sucking. “Jesus … _fuck_. Come here, Sherlock.”

He used his hands to pull Sherlock up and turned so he could push him onto his back onto the bed. He then crawled onto the bed with him, straddling his ankles so he could pull of Sherlock’s trousers and throw them on the ground. Sherlock helped him to next pull off his underwear, shimmying out of them. He was rock hard and John was ridiculously dazed at the sight. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe that this beautiful, otherworldly man wanted _him_. He felt like the luckiest man on earth.

John crawled up to straddle Sherlock, their cocks brushing against each other and Sherlock let out a moan, his body nearly vibrating with pleasure. Moving one hand in between them, John took Sherlock’s cock in his hand and began stroking, crooning at Sherlock in a low voice.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, placing kisses all over Sherlock’s neck and face. “Oh, god, you’re perfect. How are you mine? _How_?”

Sherlock whined, deep in his throat as John twisted his hand around underneath his cock and through to his ass, where his finger settled itself over his hole, gently stroking him. He seemed to be lost in ecstasy, high off John’s scent and amour. His lips crashed into John’s, seeking out his mouth and pushing his tongue inside, moaning as he did so. John could have listened to the depraved sounds Sherlock was making for the rest of eternity.

“Do you …” John was licking Sherlock’s left ear, tasting the salty sweat that was now wetting his skin. “Do you have lube?”

“Right hand side, top drawer,” Sherlock said quickly, his chest heaving.

John leaned over, removing the lubricant and hastily pouring some out onto his hand. He quickly rubbed it all over his cock, moaning at the sensation, before applying it to Sherlock – smoothing his hand over his penis and through to his asshole. Sherlock squirmed underneath him, his keening moan increasing at the sensation.

“ _Please_ ,” Sherlock whined. “Oh, please, John. _Please_.”

Oh god. This again. How could the sound of Sherlock pleading be so damn erotic?

“Like this?”

John slipped one finger inside of Sherlock, slowly moving it in and out, and Sherlock’s back arched off the bed.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock breathed, his eyes focusing on John’s face and then squeezing shut. It was all so much at once, yet somehow he couldn’t get enough.

“And …” John slipped another finger inside, slowly allowing Sherlock to become accustomed to the sensation, “this?”

“Oh god, _yes_ ,” Sherlock moaned, pushing himself down further onto John’s hand. He could hardly believe how good this felt, how much he wanted, how desperate he was to have all of John.

John moved so he was sitting up, his open legs kneeling underneath Sherlock’s so he could lift Sherlock’s legs and angle himself at his entrance. He pressed gently, nudging, and Sherlock sucked in a breath. John raised his eyebrows.

“Okay?” he questioned and at Sherlock’s quick nod, he pushed inside and _oh god_.

He fell forward onto Sherlock and pushed himself in deeper, both the men crying out. John buried his face into Sherlock’s chest both of them lying still for a moment, breath raggedly escaping them. Enveloped in each other’s wet heat, John felt Sherlock placing kisses along his shoulder, his legs wrapping completely around him so they were flush with each other.

Slowly, Sherlock started to move, using John as leverage as he moved himself up and down guiding John inside of him. John groaned into Sherlock’s skin, slowly moving with him, feeling the deep pull inside his stomach that told him he was _so_ close. He began moving faster, taking the lead, using his hands to push Sherlock’s legs back so he could move deeper.

Sherlock was crying John’s name, his hands clawing at his chest, back flexed, and sweat accumulating on his muscular chest. John felt himself inching closer to release, but he desperately wanted Sherlock to come with him, so he used one of his hands to stroke Sherlock’s cock, greedily watching the expression of lusty arousal on his face.

“Oh love, you’re so fucking perfect,” John breathed, pushing himself in and out. “Fuck, you’re amazing.”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock spat out his name amongst desperate moans. “John, I’m going to …”

“You’re going to come?” John asked, watching Sherlock closely. The veins in his neck were standing out and John could see the throb of his heartbeat coursing through his body.

“Can … can I?” Sherlock was lost. He was lost to everything except the need for release, and John held that in his hand, literally.

John felt Sherlock clenching around cock and he bit his lip. _Wait_. He told himself, but as he continued pushing into Sherlock, feeling every miniscule movement against his nerves like electricity and a cry escaped Sherlock’s lips, John felt himself being pushed over the edge.

“Yes, love,” John was groaning, pumping Sherlock harder. “Come for me, Sherlock. _Fuck_.”

Sherlock shivered underneath him, his head thrown back as he came, leaking ejaculate all over his stomach. John watched in awe as Sherlock’s muscles contracted, tightening under his skin and around John’s cock and soon John was spilling himself inside of Sherlock, his mind going entirely blank all except for blind pleasure and _Sherlock_. He felt as if he were being melded into one with him, his consciousness being pulled from him so he could only exist in a world where he was with Sherlock and Sherlock only.

He collapsed onto him, his face in Sherlock’s neck. Both men were still breathing heavily, John staying inside of Sherlock, his cock twitching slightly. His head was fuzzy and he couldn’t form coherent sentences except for expletives.

“Amazing,” Sherlock breathed, his chest still heaving.

A laugh escaped John’s lips as he sat up slightly to look at Sherlock’s face: it was sweaty and red and his curls were now damp and askew. He looked utterly beautiful. John kissed him, smiling still. This was where he needed to be. This was home to him.

“Sherlock …” John said, his name tasting sweet on his tongue.

“Mmm?” Sherlock’s voice was groggy and a lazy smile played at his lips, his eyes were closed happily.

John paused, feeling dumbstruck at the exquisite creature in front of him. “Have I told you how happy you make me?” John whispered.

Sherlock opened his eyes, regarding John for a second before he pulled him in close, allowing John to relax completely into him. John could feel the sticky mess between them, but at that moment, neither of the men cared. They could shower together after. Right now, all that mattered was Sherlock’s lips on his ear.

“No,” he said, his low voice rumbling out soothingly in his ear. “But you don’t need to.”

“I do, though.” John breathed, sighing into his body. “I need you to know this. You make me … very happy.”

John was glad to have his face in Sherlock’s neck so he couldn’t see the flush across John’s face at exposing his emotions to him so openly – be it the afterglow of his orgasm or not, John was allowing his heart to be bared for a moment, which he was not used to doing so easily.

“You make me happy too,” Sherlock answered, his hand stroking up and down John’s back with light fingertips.

John mumbled something about a shower and he carefully pulled out of Sherlock, taking his hand. Leading him out of the bedroom and to the bathroom, they hopped inside the shower together, letting the hot water wash over them, cascading over their heads. John looked at Sherlock who was standing under the stream of water and he couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of him, hair completely sopping wet and now very straight under the stream of water, swathing his face in wet, tangled tendrils. He had never pictured Sherlock with straight hair, but now that he had seen it, he realised how comical he looked.

“Don’t laugh, John,” Sherlock said in mock indignation, his hand coming up to half-heartedly cover his wet locks.

“M’not laughing,” John said, his hand coming up to cover the grin on his lips.

“You _are_ ,” Sherlock said, outraged.

“Oh, get over it. You look gorgeous either way, you big softy.” John quipped, grabbing Sherlock’s hand and pulling him into him. He kissed him with vigour and Sherlock smiled into his mouth, his hands in John’s hair. When they pulled apart, Sherlock was grinning freely, a giggle escaping his chest.

The pair slowly washed each other; John massaging shampoo into Sherlock’s hair and using body wash to clean off his sweat and semen, moving his hands gently over his skin as if he were painting a picture with his hands. Sherlock closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of being cared for, the feeling of John’s fingers massaging into his muscles tenderly. No one had touched Sherlock as lovingly and as warm as John was right at that moment.

Once both men were clean, they stepped out of the shower and wrapped themselves in fluffy towels Sherlock provided, padding with dripping hair and feet back down to the bedroom and collapsing on the bed, side by side. John took Sherlock’s hand as they lay together and Sherlock couldn’t stop the smile from appearing on his face.

“Will you stay the night?” Sherlock asked, still lying on his back, enjoying the weight of John’s hand in his.

“Of course,” John answered. He was smiling like an idiot and, once again, he was glad Sherlock wasn’t looking at him to witness it.

“Good,” Sherlock said, his eyes closed.

John knew it was getting late. He had avoided looking at his phone, knowing he would have to tell Mary some excuse as to why he wasn’t going to be home that night. That could come later. Right now, he was starving and needed some food.

“Hungry?” John asked, turning on his side to look at him.

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed. “I think Indian?”

“Sounds good to me.”

John called and ordered the takeaway and when it arrived, he slipped into one of Sherlock’s many silk dressing gowns (“Why on earth do you have so many?!” John had said, perplexed. “One can never have too many dressing gowns, John,” Sherlock had answered sagely) and slipped downstairs to retrieve the food, taking his phone with him.

He quickly paid the delivery boy, who was hiding a laugh at the muscular man in the feminine silk dressing gown, and quietly shut the door, placing the food on the stairs and pulling out his phone. He couldn’t for the life of him think of anything to say to Mary. She hadn’t texted, thinking (to her knowledge) that he would be “popping over to Mike’s to do some work before he left tomorrow”, but he certainly needed to figure out how to work this particular situation. He figured his best bet was to say he was staying with Mike: that they were going to be up so late working that he had offered his couch and John had accepted. That he would borrow a change of clothes to wear to Sussex so he wouldn’t be home. That he loved her and would see her in two days. Feeling brazen, John quickly sent the text, slipping his phone into the dressing gown pocket before dashing upstairs with the food.

The pair sat naked on Sherlock’s bed and ate their food, with Sherlock ending up slopping curry sauce on his sheets. He sighed, attempting to wipe it off before resigning himself to throwing out the linen because of _course_ he couldn’t simply _wash_ the sheets like some commoner – what was John thinking? They were _Egyptian cotton_ that was now _ruined_ by his mess. Of course John should have _known_ that.

John watched Sherlock wipe at his face and smiled inwardly at the messy man. He felt so incredibly fond of this him and when he leaned over to help wipe the food from the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock’s ocean deep eyes peered up at him through his dark eyelashes, he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling from his mouth.

“I love you,” John said quietly.

Sherlock paused, his fork halfway to his mouth, and returned it to his plate, contemplating.

“I-I’m sorry,” John backtracked immediately. Sherlock’s reaction said it all. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It was too much too soon. I just-“

“I love you too,” Sherlock said and John’s felt as though his heart were filling with the weight of those words.

After they had finished their food, John cleared the leftovers, discarding them in Sherlock’s kitchen. By this time, the sun was beginning to set and the pair were both feeling tired. When John returned to the bedroom, Sherlock had stripped the entire bed, bundling up the sheets on the floor and was fumbling with a new sheet he had pulled from his closet. John watched in amusement as Sherlock, wrapped in a lilac dressing gown, attempted, and failed, at setting the sheet on the bed.

“Do you have any idea how to make a bed, Sherlock?” John asked once Sherlock started to get incredibly frustrated.

“Don’t be stupid, John, of _course_ I know how to make a bed!” Sherlock snapped, but still he continued flailing with the material, tucking it in on one side, but having it pop back up as he moved to tuck in the other.

“Love,” John came up beside Sherlock and placed his hand on his arm, “are you sure?”

“ _Fine_ ,” Sherlock sighed, dropping the sheet. “I don’t know how to change my sheets. Mrs. Hudson usually does it for me. Happy now?”

John supressed a giggle, picking up the sheet and flicking it so it lay out flat. “That’s all you needed to say, Sherlock. Here, I’ll show you.”

Teaching Sherlock to make his bed was not something John was expecting to do on his first night with him, but it certainly made an interesting turn of events. Eventually, after multiple dramatic outbursts, John had banished Sherlock to the hall, while he made the bed himself.

Once he was done, he beckoned Sherlock back inside and they both wriggled under the clean sheets, their skin soft against the luxurious cotton. John held his arm out for Sherlock to snuggle into his chest and soon enough, Sherlock had entangled himself into John’s body, his legs twisting into John’s and his arms wrapped around his waist. He buried his face in John’s neck and pressed soft kisses into the delicate skin.

“Sherlock,” John murmured, his voice thick with sleep that was aching to take him.

“Mm?” Sherlock was the same, warmth radiating through his chest. He kept hearing John’s words repeating over in his head: _I love you_.

“Don’t laugh at this,” John began, trying to gain some sense of clarity so he could find the words, “but I think I’ll remember this day for the rest of my life.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock was humming again, his lips vibrating against John’s skin. “You would?”

“Yeah,” John sighed, thankful to have Sherlock in his arms. “I think what I’ll remember the most is … the feeling of … coming home.”

“Coming home?”

“Yeah. And … the way you looked in the light when I told you I loved you. The way your eyes seemed to see into my heart and know I was telling the truth.” John didn’t know what he was saying. He was drunk with sleep.

Sherlock pulled John against him tighter, smiling sleepily against his skin. He yawned, his fingers sleepily tracing down John’s back to settle on his bum.

“Love is the most honest thing we can give each other.”

John would remember those words forever.

\--

John woke, suddenly aware of the fact that he was in an unfamiliar bed. He blinked into the darkness, his eyes slowly becoming accustomed, remembering he was, in fact, in Sherlock’s bed. Reaching out beside him, he felt the cool spot where Sherlock should be lying, but wasn’t.

“Sherlock?” John whispered, slurring with sleep on his tongue.

There was silence for a beat, before John realised he could hear someone moving in the kitchen. Rising from his bed, John slipped out of the blankets and padded down the hall silently, towards the source of light from the kitchen.

He squinted against the bright light, finding Sherlock standing in the kitchen, his hand reaching into a cupboard, back turned.

“Sherlock?”

The tall man jumped, spinning to face John, shocked by his sudden entrance. His were eyes wild, rimmed with red, and when they settled on John, they turned dark. As much as he was trying to, John just couldn’t read him at this point. His sleepiness mixed with the tirade of emotions playing out on Sherlock’s face this early in the morning was making this more difficult than it needed to be.

“You okay?” John asked, frowning.

For a moment, Sherlock didn’t respond. He simply withdrew his hand from the cupboard, pulling a cup with him and walked to the sink to fill it with water.

“I’m fine. Trust me,” Sherlock answered, filling his cup, “just needed some water.”

“Okay,” John said, still unsure what to make of the situation. “You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, John. It’s okay. I just had a nightmare, is all.” Sherlock moved over to John with his water and pulled him into his chest with one arm, placing a soft kiss on his head. “You go back to bed – I’ll be there in a moment.”

John nodded, laying on Sherlock’s chest comfortably for a moment before shuffling off back into bed to wait for him. It was 2am and John was basically already asleep by the time he fell into his pillow.

He didn’t remember Sherlock slipping into bed beside him; he only remembered sudden warmth and his arms wrapping silently around Sherlock’s waist, with soft sleepy kisses being pulled from his lips and placed on the back of Sherlock’s neck.

John hadn’t thought about his life turning out this way, but somehow, with sleep dragging him under, and the soft in between lull coaxing him, he was glad it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you guys think <3
> 
> Find me on tumblr [-here.-](http://www.misanthropic-acedia.tumblr.com)


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleep deprivation has resulted in me being very apprehensive about this. However, it is here nonetheless.

John woke with a start, blearily not knowing where he was, before he saw Sherlock’s form beside him in the dim morning light. Glancing at his phone, he saw that it was 6am, half an hour before the pair had set an alarm to wake. But now that John was roused, he couldn’t fall back asleep, so he decided watching Sherlock sleep would be the better option.

The sunlight was slowly beginning to filter into the room, creating soft vines of light across Sherlock’s still features. John trailed his fingers over the skin on Sherlock’s arm, which erupted automatically in goose bumps as he did so. He smiled as Sherlock stirred slightly, but instead of disturbing him anymore, John slipped out of bed and moved into the bathroom to relieve himself.

Once he was finished, he moved silently back into the bedroom and his eyes fell on Sherlock’s long feet poking out the end of the bed. He remembered the moment weeks ago, when he had removed Sherlock’s shoes, and the feeling he had felt when he imagined kissing them, loving them for their perfection and beauty. Unable to help himself, John perched himself at the end of the bed and slowly started to place soft, gentle kisses on the arch of Sherlock’s left foot, his hand massaging the other. He kissed along the arch, moving up so he could place singular, loving kisses on each perfect toe, and then moved up to Sherlock’s ankle. By this stage, Sherlock was stirring, a sleepy moan escaping his throat. John continued, his hands holding the blanket up so he could slowly make his way underneath, continuing his kisses up his legs, until he reach Sherlock’s exposed shaft, which was already somewhat erect.

“Mm, good morning,” he heard Sherlock groan sleepily as his slender hands moved under the blanket and into John’s hair.

John stayed silent, his hands moving onto Sherlock’s penis, slowly stroking along his length. He heard Sherlock suck in a breath as he began to lick delicately along the underside before reaching the top and taking him in his mouth entirely. John felt Sherlock’s hand tighten in his hair slightly as he moved his head to suck with precision, his tongue lapping at the salty precome that was trickling from him. Soon Sherlock was completely erect, sighing out John’s name.

John moved one hand to Sherlock’s testicles, massaging them as he built up a motion, moving Sherlock in and out of his mouth expertly. John lightly grazed his teeth up Sherlock’s shaft and he felt Sherlock twitch underneath him at the sensation, swearing loudly.

John moved his mouth away from Sherlock and pulled the covers back so he could look up at him. He was dazed and half asleep, his hair askew, a languid smile crossing his face.

“Let me know when you’re going to come, yeah?” John asked and Sherlock nodded slowly, his eyes falling on John.

John turned his attention back to Sherlock’s cock and opened his mouth wide, swallowing Sherlock’s length into his mouth. He began moving, gaining momentum, listening carefully to the sounds Sherlock was making so he was sure he was doing the right thing. When John moved back up to the head and began sucking tightly as if he were sucking on a lollipop, Sherlock shuddered underneath him.

“Oh my god,” he groaned. “That is – _jesus_ – amazing.”

John continued sucking, a pleasant hum vibrating his mouth, which produced more moans from Sherlock.

“Yes,” Sherlock’s hand curled into John’s blonde hair. “Keep going like that.”

John slipped his hand in between Sherlock’s cheeks and began stroking at his perineum and soon Sherlock was jerking unintentionally from the sensation.

“Okay, I’m going to—“ Sherlock’s grip on John’s hair tightened. “ _Fuck_ , I’m going to come, John.”

John felt Sherlock’s cock tighten and soon enough, hot semen was spilling into his mouth. Not wanting to disappoint, John drank it down greedily, sucking until Sherlock was flinching away from him, suddenly too sensitive to allow John to touch him any longer.

John crawled up to join Sherlock in bed, who was laying with his hand over his eyes, his breath still coming in hard bursts.

“Good morning,” John said quietly.

Sherlock peered at John from under his hand, before smiling at him.

“Thanks for wake up call,” Sherlock murmured, his lips in John’s sandy hair. “What’s the time anyway?”

“Bout 6:30. Time to get up, I suppose” John stretched out in bed, the taste of Sherlock still in his mouth.

Sherlock got up and walked, still naked, into the bathroom. John heard the shower turn on and the door close and took a moment to shut his eyes, allowing himself to move his hands over to Sherlock’s side of the bed, feeling the warmth of where Sherlock had just left.

He thought about what he had said to Sherlock last night – about the fact that he loved him and he considered him home. Did he ever feel this way about Mary? He couldn’t remember. When had he ever felt as if his heart were going to explode from being filled with so much love for her? When had he felt as though she were his oxygen, his reason for getting up in the morning? When had he ever felt as though _she_ felt that way too? He couldn’t remember.

John heard his phone buzzing and saw a text from Mary pop up.

‘ _Good morning baby_

 _I hope today isn’t too stressful. Love u x_ ’

John glanced at the door, hearing Sherlock still in the shower, and flicked back a response.

‘ _Morning_

_Just about to leave. Will call you when I know more of the situation._

_I love you too.’_

Justifying his affair with Sherlock was becoming easier as time went on and the guilt was starting to lessen. He found it easy to tell Mary a lie wrapped in half a truth and allow it to spill from his lips like silk.  The only time he truly felt sick was when he thought about what Sherlock would think if he ever found out – he knew it would be over if he ever did, and John felt terrified at the thought, his stomach in knots whenever he allowed himself to think about the problem he had started too deeply. He knew, from last night, that Sherlock suffered from nightmares and he was afraid that if he ever found out about John’s engagement to another person that Sherlock would forever be tormented by trust issues which would prompt even more nightmares to surface.

Sitting up, he noticed his clothing was now folded neatly on Sherlock’s dresser, but his jacket was lying in a heap on the floor as if it had fallen from the shelf. He got out of bed and hung it back up and moved into the hall just as Sherlock was emerging, wrapped in a towel. His hair was wet, falling in tight ringlets and when his eyes fell on John, a tight smile graced his lips.

“Hey, uh, would it still be okay for me to borrow some clothes today? We just won’t have time to stop in at mine,” John asked as he was entering the bathroom to shower himself.

“Oh, uhm …” Sherlock turned to face John in the bathroom, his face thoughtful. “No.”

“Oh …” John was taken aback. “Okay. Why?”

Sherlock grabbed the door handle and began shutting John in the bathroom.

“Not a fan of sharing clothes. Hurry or we’ll be late,” he said, promptly closing the door and leaving John standing perplexed by himself in the bathroom.

He hopped into the shower, pondering at Sherlock’s peculiar mood. He had said it was fine last night for him to borrow clothing, so why did he suddenly change his mind? John wondered whether the nightmare Sherlock had woken from was still on his mind and made a mental note to ask whether he would like to talk about it or not. He allowed the water to fall on his back, letting it warm his body, attempting to quell the worry that was pervading him.

After his shower, he changed into his clothes from the day before, feeling slightly dirty, and found Sherlock in the living room, standing at the window and staring absentmindedly out onto Baker Street below. John walked up next to him and placed a hand on the small of his back, joining him in looking out the window – it was beginning to rain, a light dusting of moisture misting over London.

“Hey,” John looked up at Sherlock who continued watching cars pass by. “You okay? I hope you’re not still thinking about that nightmare last night.” John could have sworn he saw one corner of Sherlock’s lips twitch into a smile that lasted a micro second.

“I actually am,” Sherlock said, his eyes falling on John. “It’s fine. I’ll forget about it soon enough.”

John opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by Sherlock turning and grabbing his bags, flying out the door.

“Cab’s here, John. Let’s go!”

Following him down the stairs, John was feeling even more confused; why was he acting so strange? He seemed to be harder to read, more flighty, and a little less Sherlock than usual.

He was already in the cab when John reached it and when he ducked his head and stepped inside, Sherlock continued staring out the window, his shoulders squared. The car lurched into traffic and John placed his hand over Sherlock’s, squeezing it.

“You nervous?” John asked kindly. He wanted Sherlock to know he was here for him. He wanted him to open up instead of closing himself off like he was doing now.

“No,” Sherlock answered, his eyes briefly flicking to John’s face, then back out the window. Sherlock pulled his hand out from under John’s. “Sorry – a bit warm.”

Trying not to feel rejected, John allowed the rest of the ride pass in silence, mulling over Sherlock’s queer mood. Sadly, he realised that Sherlock was possibly not used to allowing others to take care of him, especially when he was feeling vulnerable and nervous. John promised to himself to take it slow, to allow Sherlock to gradually get used to the idea that he was allowed to be cared for and was allowed to show his worry instead of holding it in.

They pulled up outside the train station and Sherlock quickly thrust a handful of notes at the driver and silently exited the vehicle. They made their way to the platform walking side by side, Sherlock carrying his overnight bag. John still felt stupid that he didn’t have a change of clothes and almost annoyed at the fact, but he felt it shouldn’t ruin their weekend away, so he decided to leave it.

They arrived at the platform where the train was already waiting before it departed and John realised Sherlock was no longer beside him. Turning, he found him standing behind a slight way back; his face was dark, echoing his expression last night.

“John,” his voice was sharp, hiding something.

“You okay?” John walked up to him, frowning.

“I will be,” Sherlock responded, eyes watching John guardedly.

“What do you mean?”

There was a brief moment of silence in which John waited with baited breath. Something was happening, he could tell by the way Sherlock lips were pulled into a tight smile; John’s stomach was suddenly doing flips.

“Well, I guess now is a better time than ever,” Sherlock’s hand delved into his coat pocket. “I have something of yours you might need returned …”

John suddenly felt as though his blood had run cold. Sherlock was holding in his hand a familiar piece of card – lace trim, bone white, inscribed with a very familiar cursive: Mary’s writing. Sherlock, whose face was entirely calm, extended his hand that was holding one of John’s wedding invitations to him, but John, feeling as though there were suddenly a million bees buzzing around in his head, couldn’t bring himself to take it from him.

 “Sherlock, I …” John’s voice was quiet, the words feeling thick on his tongue.

“Take it, John. It belongs to you, after all,” Sherlock thrust it in John’s direction again, his aggressive movement betraying the real emotion that was boiling underneath the surface.

John stayed where he was, unable to move.

“You look shocked. Were you not aware of your impending marriage to …” Sherlock glanced indifferently down at the words on the card as if her name had slipped from his mind. “… Mary?”

“I don’t know what to say,” John’s heart was in his throat. He felt as though he were going to throw up.

“You know,” Sherlock was turning the invitation in his hands, his eyes roving over John and Mary’s names, memorising every detail, “when I found this in your jacket last night, I thought I _was_ having a nightmare, so when you actually found me in the kitchen and suggested that, I found that quite ironic. I guess I should have seen this coming.”

Sherlock’s emerald eyes collided with John’s and he saw they were brimming with tears, his true emotions finally making it to the surface; he took one last look at the card in his hand and then his face creased into something resembling pained disgust. He tucked the invitation back into his pocket, not able to stomach looking at it anymore.

“Just tell me one thing … was any of this the truth? Or was it all lies?” His voice whispered out across his lips, almost too quiet for John to hear over the din of the train station.

John took a step forward, aching to hold him, and when Sherlock automatically recoiled away from him, his heart felt as though it were shattering into a million fragments and he was suddenly afraid wouldn’t be able to put them back together again.

“ _Don’t_ touch me,” Sherlock warned. The quiver in his voice made John’s chest ache. “Well? Was anything true?”

“Yes. _This –“_ John placed his hand over his chest where his heart would lay underneath. “—is the truth.”

He was holding back his desperation for the time being, not giving in to that ache in his chest that told him to go and wrap his arms around Sherlock. He wanted to take him in his arms and reverse time so he could change things, so he could go back to how it was last night when the worst thing they had to worry about was Sherlock’s sheet changing skills.

“What I feel for you … that’s the truth. That’s the _whole_ truth, Sherlock.”

“It’s not enough.” Sherlock’s lips formed the words and John felt them like a knife.

This couldn’t be happening. John breathed out Sherlock’s name, almost a protestation, and suddenly, John couldn’t help himself. He rushed up to Sherlock and placed his hands on the sides of his face, clutching onto him the way the shore held onto the ocean, with urgent fingertips, wanting all of him before he receded once again. Sherlock closed his eyes at John’s touch, tears finally spilling down his face.

“You can feel this, I know you can.” John’s voice wavered, threatening to give out on him. He used his thumb to wipe a tear from Sherlock’s cheek. “Please … don’t tell me to leave.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked John in the face and he knew it was over. They were finished. John knew this from the way Sherlock was looking at him as if he were deleting all the memories they had together. He felt as though his legs were going to give out from under him.

Sherlock wrenched himself from John’s grip and quickly wiped a tear from his face, his expression returning to that of neutral indifference – a façade to keep his emotions inside himself and away from John.

“Please Sherlock … can we talk about this? I-I … don’t want to leave you.” John was now crying, allowing his tears to fall freely; he didn’t bother wiping them away.

“Sure,” Sherlock retorted, feigning sarcasm. “We can talk. You have—“ he glanced at the clock on the far wall, “—seven minutes. And then I’m getting on that train. Without you.”

John suddenly didn’t know what to say – he didn’t know what he could do that would change things. He could tell Sherlock he didn’t love Mary. That he would leave her. That he would do anything for Sherlock to at least give him one more chance. Deep down he knew all of those excuses wouldn’t be enough to fix what he had done.

“It may not mean much, but I’m … sorry?” The words came out like a question – a gentle inquiry into whether or not Sherlock would be willing to accept it.

But when Sherlock’s indifference remained, John broke down, heaving sobs shaking his body. He moved forward and grasped onto the front of Sherlock’s coat, his forehead coming to rest on Sherlock’s chest. “I’m _sorry_. I’m so sorry, Sherlock. You must forgive me—“

Sherlock’s hands moved up to cover John’s and he pulled away from him, taking another step away from John. The space between them was beginning to feel like a stretch of time, an empty plain of space where the only thing that held them together was a thin thread.

“You told me you loved me,” John said, trying to make him see; to make him remember.

“So did you,” Sherlock answered. His bottom lip quivered slightly as he took in John’s wild face and when he spoke, there were unshed tears sparkling in his eyes. “Go home, John.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?” Sherlock’s voice was a mere whisper.

“Because that’s not my home … _you’re_ my home.”

There was a whistle, indicating the train’s imminent departure, and Sherlock picked up his bags, his lips pursed into a tight line, tears threatening to fall from his eyes.

“Your seven minutes is up. Enjoy your wedding, John. I hope she makes you very happy.”

“No … _please_ …”

John ran his hands raggedly through his hair, trying to find some way at least to make Sherlock stay and listen, but Sherlock turned away and made his way to the train. John could see a slight shake in his squared shoulders and he knew he was finally allowing himself to cry. John watched him leave, helpless, feeling as though Sherlock had taken a part of him with him onto the train. He felt raw because of it. He was suddenly empty.

When Sherlock disappeared inside of the train, John felt his legs moving to rush up beside it and he peered through the windows to try and catch a glimpse of Sherlock one last time. He finally spotted him, walking through the aisle in an attempt to find a row of seats to himself. His coat collar was up, shielding his face from other passengers, but John could see the palpable pain etched on his face. He loved Sherlock with every inch of his soul and he hated himself for doing this to him. He hated himself for being so damn stupid. He hated himself because he knew he would never get him back.

And suddenly he was being directed to a bench, a firm hand on his back; he could hear the train leaving behind him. A plump older woman was guiding him to sit down and words were coming from her, but John couldn’t process them, he could only hear the sound of the train rolling over the tracks, carrying away the one person he loved most in the world.

“Do you need me to call anyone, love?” her heavily lined face peered into John’s and through his tears he saw her pity.

An announcement rung out over the speakers and suddenly everything was _too loud_ and his skin felt like it was crawling and the old lady was rubbing her hand on his back and it felt like razor blades and he needed to _get. Out_.

“Sorry – sorry.” John mumbled to the old woman as he stood from the bench.

He dashed from the train station, ignoring the looks from people he received as he shoved past them, feeling uneasy on his feet. All he needed was to get out of the building and away from the noise so he could collect air in his lungs once again.

Except when he finally escaped, the air wouldn’t come. He kept gasping like a fish, his hands coming to rest on his knees as he stood outside. He couldn’t stop the tsunami of thoughts currently assaulting his brain. He couldn’t stop Sherlock from leaving. He couldn’t stop his heart from breaking. He couldn’t stop this.

John pulled out his phone and without thinking, dialled the first number that came into his brain.

“Hey,” a woman’s familiar voice filled John’s ear.

“Harry?” John choked out his sister’s name, clutching the phone to his ear. At the sound of her voice, it was as if a switch had flicked in his brain and he was suddenly feeling the reality of everything crashing down on him.

“John? Are you okay?” Harriet said as soon as she heard John’s throaty sob after he said her name.

“No … I’m not okay,” it was the only sliver of truth John felt like he had said in a few weeks and it tasted bitter on his tongue. When had he become such a fraud that telling the truth had begun to feel foreign to him?

“Where are you? It’s not Dad, is it?”

“No, it’s not about Dad.” John was pacing up and down the street, his anxiety forcing his legs to move. He didn’t know what he wanted to gain from his call to Harry, but it her familiar tones seemed to help him breathe a little. “M’at Victoria Station.”

“I’m staying at the Amba hotel on Charing Cross. Do you think you can make it here in a cab?”

“Wait, what are you doing in London?” John queried, confused.

“We can talk about that later. Text me when you’re nearly here and I’ll meet you outside, okay?” Harriet was always blunt and to the point, somehow managing to get her way every time, and this was no exception.

“Yeah … okay,” John answered and he ended the call.

His whole body seemed to be numb; he realised he had been walking and was now a good few miles from his original location. He spotted a cab and, stumbling forward, flapped one arm out to flag it down. John jumped inside and vaguely heard himself mumble out the address of Harriet’s hotel.

He wasn’t sure why he had called his sister of all people – it wasn’t like they had the most perfect relationship where they could confide in each other when times were tough. The last time they had spoken was over a year ago when their father had suffered from his first stroke, ending up in hospital. Harriet had chosen not to visit and had caused a lot of tension between them, making it difficult for either of them to bridge that gap and contact each other again; it was only now that John had dialled her number and finally taken the first step towards them reconnecting again.

John finally arrived at the hotel, immediately spotting his sister standing out on the sidewalk, and no matter how terrible he was feeling about his situation with Sherlock, he still felt his stomach leap with happiness at seeing her in the flesh for the first time in over a year.

She was standing outside with a cardigan pulled over her shoulders, hunched over in the cold. Her shoulder length golden hair was tucked behind her ears messily as she waved at the car and ducked over to open the door for John. She looked worried and as soon as he stepped out of the vehicle, she pulled him into a tight hug.

“You okay?” she spoke, her voice muffled into his shoulder as she squeezed him tight. “Quick, come inside.”

John followed his sister in a daze, still reeling from the fact that she was in London when he had called. They moved into the elevator and he glanced at her as she swiped a keycard against the scanner and pressed the level they needed to go to. He noticed the deeper lines on her face and the faint dusting of grey that was slowly beginning to streak its way through her hair.

She glanced back at John, raising an eyebrow at him and, as if she were reading his mind, she blurted out: “Jesus, you’re getting old. You look like shit, mate.”

John ran his hands over his face and let out a hollow chuckle, rubbing his fingers over his eyes, which felt strained from crying.

“What’s new?” John answered. He pulled his phone out and grimaced at the notification of a missed call from Mary – right now all the needed was a stiff drink, even if it was only 9am.

They eventually stopped on the fifth floor and Harriet led the way to a room, where John found her usual chaos that she seemed to carry with her everywhere. Her laptop was lying open on the floor in front of the bed with a mess of paper surrounding it, and on the small counter top was a few days worth of empty takeaway boxes and empty cans of beer.

“Sorry,” she mumbled with an awkward laugh, rushing into the kitchen and hurriedly clearing away the mess. “I didn’t really expect visitors, you know.”

“No, no, it’s fine. You have any more of that?” John pointed to the practically empty bottle of whiskey that was sitting on the bench.

“John,” Harriet said with a dubious stare, “it’s nine in the morning. Don’t you think it’s a little early for the hard liquor?”

“Trust me, I need it.”

Harriet complied, opening one of the cupboards and pulling out a bottle of Bell’s whiskey. She placed it down on the bench and pulled out two glasses, pouring generous amounts for both. John snatched one up and gulped it down, screwing up his eyes as the searing liquor burned his throat and settled in his stomach. He put his glass back down, groaning at the taste, and nodded at Harry for another.

“ _Jesus_ ,” she said, pouring another for him. “Are you going to tell me what’s got you in this state or are you just going to continue drinking my liquor all morning?”

Truth be told, John had no idea where to start. He looked up from his drink into Harriet’s round face and felt ashamed at his actions – he didn’t know if he could even begin to explain the mess he had gotten himself in.

“I … I guess I should just tell you …” John felt the words on his tongue mixing with the bitter taste of liquor and he sucked his lips together, his trepidation stalling him. Finally, he let the words come. “I’ve been cheating on Mary.”

He expected Harry to blow up, to slap him, to tell him what a complete idiot he was, but instead she did none of those things, she only blinked at him, her mouth left open. John took another sip of his drink before continuing, wanting to fill the silence that was stretching out before them.

“I know, I know. I never expected to do this and I hate myself for it. I brought it on myself! And now he’s found out I’m engaged and –“

“Wait, you’re cheating on Mary with a _man_?” Harriet couldn’t stop her grin and she leaned forward gleefully, her hands spreading out on the counter. “Oh man, just wait till Dad finds out he has _another_ gay child. This is so good—“

“I’m not gay, Harry!” John protested, suddenly feeling defensive.

“Bisexual, gay …” Harriet shrugged. “They’re all the same to Dad, aren’t they?”

“I thought you’d be more pissed off with me cheating on Mary, but instead you’re going on about the fact that our dad will be disappointed that he has two gay kids?” John and Harriet’s banter was always easy and it helped soothe John’s anxiety, allowing him to focus on something else.

“Oh no, I was just getting around to beating you black and blue for that one. What the hell were you thinking, John?!” Harry leaned over the counter and swatted at John’s head lightly. “I thought you loved Mary!”

“I do! I mean … I don’t know,” John leaned onto the countertop and rested his forehead in his hands. “I have honestly fucked everything up, Harry.”

“You don’t …” Harriet paused and John glanced up at her – she was staring at John with wide eyes. “You don’t ... _love_ him, do you?”

John groaned, pulling a face at Harry, before resuming his position of his head in his hands, staring down at the granite.

“Oh for god’s sake, John. What’d you go ahead and do that for?!” Another swat on his head.

“It’s not like I did it on purpose!” John felt his eyes welling up and he discretely wiped them away with the palm of his hand. “Plus, it’s not like it’ll do any good – he found out about Mary. It’s over now. I’ve got no one.”

“ _Come_ _on_. Grow up a bit, John.” Her voice was hard. She was repeating her usual trope of ‘drawing a line’. “Enough is enough. You got yourself into this, so you’ve got to get yourself out. There’s no point in you moping around like a bloody sissy.”

John sniffed, looking up at his sister who was standing with her arms folded across her chest – she looked remarkably like their father with that harsh expression on her face, her light blue eyes scowling at him.

“You don’t understand, Harriet,” John said, his hands wrapping around the amber liquid in his glass. “You’ve never experienced heartbreak so you wouldn’t know.”

He knew immediately he had said the wrong thing when Harry’s face twisted from stern into incredulous anger.

“Never experienced – you’re saying I’ve never experienced heartbreak?” her cheeks were rising in colour as she spoke. “How about the heartbreak of being exiled from our family, John? How about realising you’re a lesbian and in love with your _straight_ fucking best friend at 16 and having _no one_ to talk to about it? Because your dad would only smack you around a bit or laugh at you, your mother liked to pretend everything was okay, and your _brother_ was gone? How were you to know _what_ kind of heartbreak I’ve experienced when you weren’t even there to help me through it?!”

“Oh don’t give me that bull,” John stood, taking his drink with him, and moved over to the window, staring out at the traffic below. “You could have picked up the phone and called.”

“You don’t think I tried that? You don’t think I tried to contact you? You left, John. You left us. You left _me_. I was _fifteen_. So don’t you dare tell me I’ve never experienced heartbreak when I’ve been battling with it my entire goddamn life!”

John turned and found Harriet still standing in the kitchen, staring John down with her intense anger, her eyes burning into John’s.

“Harry, I didn’t …” John felt himself crumbling again, withering under her gaze. His voice was small and he felt as though he were a child again, being reduced to tears by his father. “I’m sorry.”

Harriet’s hard expression faltered and suddenly turned into resignation. “Listen, I’m sorry for blowing up at you. It’s just hard because the last time we spoke was when Dad was in hospital and now you’re suddenly here in front of me and … it’s all just too real.”

“Tell me about it,” John sighed. “Why are you here anyway?”

Harriet moved across the room and joined John at the window. “Work. And Gina wanted some space. I’m pretty sure we’re broken up.

Harriet moved to the bed and sat on the edge, before laying herself back and staring up at the roof, thoughtful. She made enough room for John, so he joined her, lying back so they were side by side. They used to lie like this in John’s bedroom when they were kids, usually making up songs or stories together to cover up the sound of an argument between their parents in the room next door.

“So I guess both of us are a bit fucked up at the moment,” John said with a wry smile.

“Mm, could say that.”

“Would you take someone back? If they did what I did?” John asked, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

“Probably not,” she answered immediately, but upon noticing John’s despondent reaction, she continued. “Unless I really loved the person. Do you think he really loves you?”

John thought back to the way Sherlock looked at John when they finally said they loved each other: he looked as though he were suddenly breathing again, like the light in his eyes were somehow brighter. He knew that was real. He knew their love was real. He wasn’t ready to give that up. He wanted to fight for Sherlock.

“Yes, I do.” John answered finally.

“Well there you go, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you guys think. <3


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have to let you guys know, this was a big struggle for me to finish this and the following chapters. I've just become really ill and it as been affecting my concentration and ability to comprehend words, meaning writing has been very difficult for me.
> 
> Somehow I have managed to finish this chapter, however please let me know if you spot any mistakes or errors in syntax.
> 
> Also: [If you're wanting a reminder of the song featured in this chapter.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gAWCuPG94dA&index=8&list=PLkgI_HOcQENwJHWwNR9KiK9GrGTvHqJwu)

_Collecting pictures from a flood that wrecked our home,  
it was a flood that wrecked this home._

_\--_

“So are you going to answer that?” Harriet was sitting up, looking over at John’s phone which was lying face up on the countertop, vibrating.

John jumped up, his head spinning from the alcohol and the sudden change in position, and dashed over to it, hoping against hope that it would be Sherlock’s name flashing up on the screen. Instead, it was Mary’s. John watched her name flashing, holding his phone in his hand, before silencing it and stashing it in his pocket.

He glanced guiltily over at Harry who was frowning at him, looking disappointed.

“You can’t keep running away from this, you know,” she said. “You’re gonna have to tell her at some stage.”

John didn’t answer. He silently moved back to his position on the bed, sitting on the edge next to Harriet with a heavy sigh.

“ _John_ ,” Harriet turned and regarded him seriously. “You are getting married. You can’t continue this way. Mary deserves to know.”

John knew this. Of course he knew it. Mary was like a shining beacon of light, perfect and enlightening in every way. Of course she didn’t deserve this, but she had been _his_ source of light for so many years that it was hard to think of life without her illuminating the way.

“I still love her!” John protested.

“Do you?”

“I think …”

“What, so you’re just going to keep this from her then? You’re just going to marry her and never tell her about your affair or the fact that you’re in love with someone else?”

John hated Harriet right at this moment. He hated her because he knew she was telling the truth and now that it was coming out of her mouth, with her deadpan blue eyes glaring into his, he was ashamed of himself.

“I don’t know, Harriet!” John exclaimed, his hands being thrown in the air with frustration. “All I know is that everything is a fucking great big mess and it’s _my_ fault!”

John stood, clenching and unclenching his fists. He was working himself up, starting to get furious at Harriet for being so damn unflappable about this. John turned and started pacing across the floor before turning and angrily launching a kick at the base of the bed. Couldn’t she see that he loved Mary too? Couldn’t she see what it would mean if he were to tell her about Sherlock?

“I don’t want to lose her too.” John spat.

_I don’t want to be alone._

“So that’s it then? You’re going to be one of those husbands who lie to their wife for their entire marriage? That’s not how these things work, John.” Harriet was unfazed by his outburst of aggression; instead, she continued goading him. “You’re a selfish bloody prick.”

John wheeled around and began pacing up and down in front of Harriet, who was watching him in silence. “Is it wrong for me to want to be selfish? Is it so wrong for me to want to stay with the woman I love?”

He seemed to be talking to himself more than anything, battling with his inner voice, trying to rationalise an irrational situation. He was clenching and unclenching his hands again, his legs moving automatically underneath him.

“Yes! In this case, it is! Mary isn’t some doll that you can just manipulate for your own agenda! She is a human being with feelings and emotions and she deserves to know that you’ve done this to her! This isn’t some fib you’re telling a child! This is your future _wife_! You were having an affair, John!”

The past tense wasn’t lost on John. He _was_ having an affair. He _was_ with Sherlock and now he wasn’t. He was reminded of what he had lost and the memory of it felt like sand slipping through his fingers.

“I can’t listen to this,” John stormed over to where his coat was sitting on the countertop. “I wouldn’t expect you of all people to understand. I don’t know why I even bothered coming here.”

Harriet followed him to the door, holding it open for him. Her face was contorted into incredulous bitterness, watching him angrily shove on his jacket.

“You don’t want to listen because you know it’s the truth!” Harriet yelled after him as he marched down the hall in the direction of the elevator. “You’re a bloody coward, John!”

John stopped in his tracks, his back to Harriet, contemplating turning around to continue his argument with her. He wanted to scream at her that he wasn’t a fucking coward. That loving Sherlock was the only brave thing he had ever done in his life. Instead he steeled himself and marched on around the corner to the elevator door, punching his fist into the button. The alcohol had made him livid, but not with Harriet.

The elevator door pinged open and he entered the unoccupied compartment, his feet moving over the carpet with a whisper. When the doors closed, he found himself face to face with his own reflection in the mirrored door. He looked wild; fists clenched, hair skewed, cheeks flushed, and red eyes. All he wanted to do was smash his fist into the reflection, to rid himself of the memory of him being so damn angry, because he knew he had no right to be.

Making his way out onto the street, he felt his phone ringing again but decided to ignore it, knowing it would be Mary trying to call him. He couldn’t talk to her, not right now.

Rain was showering down over London and it quickly dampened his clothes, creating a light dusting of moisture through his hair. He ran his hands through his it, not really knowing what he was doing. People around him were walking, hunched under umbrellas or sheltering under hoods as the rain started pelting down harder; many of them were hailing cabs to take them to their destination under the shelter of a car roof. John, however, just started walking, not really knowing where his feet were taking him, just following the footpath in front of him, and allowing the rain to soak him through.

His anger slowly abated as he walked, washing away with the rain that was on his face and soon he realised he didn’t know where he was going. He looked around and recognized he was on route to Baker Street, so he followed the path there, turning onto the street and watching 221B move closer with every step he took.

Stopping outside he was overwhelmed by the urge to cry again and when he looked up at Sherlock’s window, he allowed the feeling to take over, tears mingling with the rain on his face. He knew Sherlock wasn’t inside, but he felt like if he were to go running up there, he would find him waiting, willing to forgive him. He wanted to go upstairs and find him sitting naked, cross-legged on his bed, curry sauce adorning his top lip, a wry smile across his beautiful face. His chest ached with the pain of his need to hold him, or to be held by him.

John felt he must have looked like a bit of a dick, standing out in the rain, staring up at the building, crying quietly. His hair was sopping wet, water dripping into his eyes, not even a waterproof coat to protect him from the elements. He stared at the numbers on the door, contemplating whether he should knock and ask Mrs. Hudson if he could go upstairs. She wouldn’t be aware of the current situation between the pair, so it wouldn’t be like she would have any reason to send him away.

As if she had heard his thoughts, the door opened and Mrs. Hudson stepped over the threshold, a bright blue rain jacket on, her hands laden with two rubbish bags.

“Oh! John!”

Her surprised exclamation shook him out of his stupor, and he almost turned and fled the scene, but his overpowering need to be around Sherlock stopped him. Even if it was Mrs. Hudson, at least it was something that could make him feel close to Sherlock once again.

“Mrs. Hudson,” John attempted to sound normal, moving forward and taking the bags from her hands. “Here, let me help you with that.”

“Thank you,” she handed over the bags and gestured to the rubbish bin for him to store them in. “What are you doing here? I thought you and Sherlock were supposed to be in Sussex.”

“Uh, yeah. Plans changed.” John didn’t know what excuse to give her, so he muttered: “Work.”

“Come on inside out of the rain, quickly now.” She dashed out into the rain and placed a hand on his back which was wet through to his skin, leading him into the shelter of her home.

He followed her through past the stairs that led up to Sherlock’s flat, into her small kitchen, where she pulled off her raincoat and hung it, dripping, on the hook on the back door. John perched himself on the edge of the seat by her dining table, pulling off his coat which was dripping water all over the floor.

“Sorry,” John offered as he watched Mrs. Hudson taking in the mess on the floor.

“Oh don’t worry about that, dear. It’s just a bit of water,” she said, turning to boil the kettle for a cup of tea. “You gave me a start standing out there in the rain. I was just about to watch a bit of Countdown, so I’m glad for the company. Do you take sugar, love?”

John shook his head, his mind attempting to come up with some excuse to extricate himself from her presence so he could go upstairs to be amongst Sherlock’s things. He wanted to breathe in his scent so he could feel closer to him, so he could feel not so alone.

“Uh, Mrs. Hudson?” John started.

“Yes, dear?” she was bustling in the kitchen, laying out a tray with tea and shortbread.

“I actually need to pop upstairs and grab something. That’s why I came here.”

Mrs. Hudson turned to John, her face falling at the prospect of her company deserting her.

“Oh, well … do make sure you dry off while you’re up there. You don’t want to catch a cold. There’s a nasty one floating around.”

John awkwardly moved out of the kitchen to the staircase and placed his hand on the banister, his eyes watching the top of the stairs, almost afraid to move up there for fear of him not being able to connect with any of Sherlock’s things. When his legs finally started moving, he felt his stomach filling with apprehension.

As he moved into the living room, the flat was deathly silent, all but for John’s quiet breathing and the faint sound of rain on the rooftop. The dim light straining through the windows made the room dusky and morose, which ironically fitted in with exactly how John was feeling. He spotted Sherlock’s ruined sheets sitting in a heap on the floor where he had left them last night and on the countertop in the kitchen lay their mess of empty food containers. The flat contained snippets of their love, the echo ricocheting onto any tangible surface and John allowed the memories to slip into his mind, storing them in a reservoir labelled ‘Sherlock Holmes’.

Moving back down into the hall, Sherlock’s bedroom door was shut and when John placed his hand on the door handle and opened up his now messy bedroom, John had a virulent flashback of them lying in bed together, tangled amongst sheets and limbs, smiles coming so easy. He spotted a small, old fashioned cassette player on Sherlock’s dresser and John pushed play, wanting some kind of noise to stop his thoughts from overwhelming him.

When the music started, he felt as though his heart had stopped beating for a few moments, recognising the melody immediately. The thought of Sherlock listening to the first song they danced together to made John’s heart break again; he pictured Sherlock alone in his bedroom, smiling as he danced by himself with an imaginary John. He remembered the feeling of Sherlock’s skin underneath his fingers as they danced all those weeks ago. The smell of him when he brushed his body up against John. The intoxicating closeness they shared. Under the circumstances, the music now had more depth and sorrow knotted into the chords than he had felt on that first evening with Sherlock.

Now, somehow, it felt like a goodbye.

John swayed slightly, feeling lightheaded, and steadied himself by placing a hand on Sherlock’s dresser. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to choke out a quiet sob as Sherlock’s words repeated in his head. _It’s not enough_. It was like a sick film that kept replaying over in his head: Sherlock’s face crumpled into pained grief, lost to John because of what he did. The way he kept his impassive amour up as he extended his hand, holding out the invitation to John. Such a small, insignificant piece of cardboard that held so much weight. So much power.

With the song finished, John allowed the room to fall into silence and crawled into Sherlock’s messy bed, moving onto his side so he could pull Sherlock’s pillow into his chest and breathe in his scent. John wondered whether Sherlock would be feeling the way John was right now. He wondered whether Sherlock would feel as empty as John did. He wondered whether his world would feel as bleak as John’s. He wondered whether Sherlock could no longer feel his fingertips, his body numb with the loneliness that was slowly consuming him. He thought about Sherlock’s music and wondered whether it would still feel the same, or whether it would remind him of the sound of the train rolling over the tracks as he left John behind.

John allowed his eyes to close, enveloping himself in the feeling of Sherlock’s things, allowing the whispers of Sherlock’s essence to become entrenched in his mind. He wasn’t sure when he would ever be able to smell or feel him again and he wanted to hold onto this forever.

He was jarred out of his reverie by his phone vibrating once again and, groaning inwardly, he finally decided to bite the bullet and answer Mary’s call.

“Hey,” he said, lying with the phone up to one ear.

“Hey!” Mary’s voice sounded light and elated at finally hearing John pick up. “How’s it going?”

“Um, actually better than I initially thought. I’ll probably be home tonight instead of tomorrow, so there’s a plus.” He realised he missed her. “Sorry I didn’t call, love.”

“No, no. It’s fine,” she answered, relaxed as usual. “Just make sure you bring me back something nice from Sussex, okay?”

“Yeah, I will.” John lied.

“Okay, well … I love you.” Mary said softly.

“Yeah, I love you too, Mary. See you when I get back.”

John hung up the phone and idly let it slip from his fingers onto the bed in front of him. He closed his eyes and used his fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose, exhaling loudly.

“So does Sherlock know?”

John was startled by Mrs. Hudson standing in the doorway, arms folded, scrutinising him from across the room. He sat up quickly, feeling guilty. But why should he feel guilty? It’s not like he was with Sherlock anymore – Sherlock knew about everything and they weren’t together anymore.

“Is that why you’re not in Sussex?” Mrs. Hudson was quiet, watching John attempt to think of a response. Her lips were pursed and she had her thin eyebrows raised, waiting expectantly.

“I …” John fumbled with his words. What could he even say to her that would make her understand?

“Listen,” she cut in, still waiting in the doorway. “I’ve known Sherlock for many years and I’ve never seen him as happy as he has been when he’s with you. But the thing you need to know about Sherlock is when he allows himself to be, he is as loyal and trusting as anything. And if you do something to break that and hurt him, mark my words, John: it will be the biggest mistake of your life.”

John let out a hollow laugh. “It’s too late,” he answered. “It’s already over. Sherlock knows.”

Mrs. Hudson sighed with disappointment, shaking her head. “Is Mary your wife?”

“Wife to be. Engaged.” John struggled with the words, almost as though he were coming to terms with them all over again.

“You’re a bloody idiot, John Watson.” Mrs. Hudson was stern, but beneath that hardness, she also sounded incredibly sad. “How could you do this to Sherlock? You saw how much he loves you. He wouldn’t stop dancing around his flat when he came home from seeing you; it made a right bloody noise above my tele.”

John allowed himself a sad smile at the thought of Sherlock dancing happily after seeing John, but it was soon replaced with intense regret. Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be hearing him dancing alone anymore, he mused.

“I don’t know what you’re smiling about. You’re the one who’s going to have to pick up the pieces if you want to fix this!”

John blinked up at her. Did she really think this was fixable?

“But … how _can_ I fix this?” John said.

“Well, first of all: have you told Mary yet?”

“No,” John said, embarrassed.

“Well that’s the first thing on your list. You need a hard lesson in honesty, mister.” Mrs. Hudson’s demeanour was harsh, her eyes suddenly boring into John’s intensely. For such a small, kind woman, she was suddenly intimidating and demanding.

“Okay, so I tell Mary,” John considered. “Then what? Would Sherlock just take me back?”

“Of course he won’t!” Mrs. Hudson laughed. “People don’t exist just to fit into your mould of how life should be, John. It’s not as black and white as you’re trying to make it out to be. Especially not in Sherlock’s case.”

If it had been anyone else, John would have argued back, insisting he wasn’t trying to make it out that way, but for some reason, Mrs. Hudson was making it all so clear and he didn’t have it in him to try and talk his way out of her bad books.

“You and him need to sit down and _talk_ like normal adults. You two love each other, yes?” At John’s emphatic nod, she continued. “So do what people who love each other have done for years and _talk_. You’ll work it out.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.” John was lost in thought, thinking about the possibility of telling Mary the whole truth. The thought of losing her was terrifying and it made him itch to have another strong drink, just to settle his nerves.

“So you’re going to tell Mary. When?” Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows at John.

 _Jesus, she wants me to tell her now._ John wasn’t prepared for this. He wouldn’t even know what to tell Mary or how to even begin to tell her.

“I guess … when I see her tonight?” John didn’t really believe the words coming out of his mouth and he was afraid now that he had said them to someone else, they were now set in stone. It was all so much so soon.

“Right,” she nodded and stood aside, gesturing in the direction of the door. “I guess you’ve got some preparing to do.”

John left in a daze, initially intending to go home, but instead heading in the direction of his local pub.

Once inside, he ordered a pint and found a spot by himself in the corner. It wasn’t busy – mostly people sitting down to a late lunch, having a few drinks after work. He didn’t want to have too much to drink, but as his thoughts became more turbulent in fretful anticipation of his confrontation with Mary, the more drinks he ordered. Eventually he had gone through five pints of lager and he felt very nearly drunk. Looking at the time, he realised it was time to go home. Mary would be arriving any second now from work. It was time to make the leap.

He stumbled over the threshold of his small home and saw Mary’s bag sitting on the couch, meaning she had just arrived home minutes prior to him. He heard her moving around in the kitchen and when he walked to where she was, she turned and spotted him, smiling brightly.

“Hi, love.”

She was slightly askew from a hard day and her short hair was lying in tight blonde curls on top of her head. She looked utterly beautiful and happy and it was then that John knew what a mistake he was making if he told her. He couldn’t tell her. Where would he go? Leaving her would mean he was left with _no one_. He had isolated himself from his friends and family. His sister obviously wouldn’t welcome him into her home with open arms. And Sherlock? Well it was a whimsical fantasy that he would ever take John back. And if he told Mary, he would lose her too. He couldn’t do that – not right now.

As soon as Mary took in John’s dishevelled appearance and grave expression, she knew something was off.

“What’s wrong?” she said, stopping on her way over to him to give him a hug.

John placed his hand on the kitchen counter to steady himself. “Hm? Nothing,” he answered.

“John … are you drunk?” Mary frowned at him.

“Oh. Um. Yeah.” John swayed to the side and the room started spinning slightly. “I just, uhm, had a few before I caught the train.”

“Oh for goodness sake,” Mary sighed, rolling her eyes. “You do realise it’s only 4pm, yeah? You’re wasted, John.”

Although John knew she was telling the truth somewhat, he still couldn’t help but feel defensive: he wasn’t _that_ drunk.

“No. M’fine,” he protested.

Mary narrowed her eyes, a small smile playing at her lips. “Okay then. If you’re not drunk, can you walk in a straight line for me, love?” she said, her voice overly innocent and light.

 _Fuck_. John sucked in a breath, steeling himself. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to do this and when he stumbled once, he knew it would be all over. If the bloody room would stop moving, then he would be fine.

Letting go of the counter he threw a challenging glance at Mary, before attempting to walk in a relatively sober fashion. Instead of walking in a straight line, however, he stumbled over his own feet and felt like he was going to fall forwards onto his face. Mary moved up to him, placing her arms on either side of him to steady him.

“I think it’s time for a nap, yeah?” she said.

John nodded, glad for the excuse to go to bed and be with his own thoughts. Mary guided him kindly down the hall and when he fell into bed face first, she threw a blanket over him and said something about going to make dinner.

He hadn’t realised just how intoxicated he was, but at least the alcohol had made it easy for him to forget about the nightmare he had found himself in today. He was exhausted and devastated and using alcohol to cover that up made things easier for him to cope.

However, he knew tomorrow was a new day and with that, he wasn’t sure how things were going to play out. He thought he had a plan, but now that seemed to have been thrown out the window. The wedding was looming closer and John knew he had to decide what to do before it was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. Let me know what you guys think <3
> 
> Remember, you can also find my 1901 playlist on Spotify through [this link.](https://open.spotify.com/user/1245955049/playlist/7CgD2pvEfJiI4E5TCT0619)


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written in about two days in between work and recovering from being sick, so here's hoping I got it down how I wanted.
> 
> Find an updated 1901 playlist on Spotify [here.](https://open.spotify.com/user/1245955049/playlist/7CgD2pvEfJiI4E5TCT0619)

As the weeks started merging into each other, John told himself every day that he would come clean to Mary, yet each day his cowardice forced the confession into the back of his throat and stuck it there, remaining a secret. He was slowly beginning to feel less like the man he wanted to be and as each day wore on, he became more gutless.

John would sometimes wake in the early hours of the morning, desperate, quiet sobs rattling through his chest. This was something that had been happening on and off for the past two weeks – John being overcome with sudden bouts of deep, intrinsic sadness that he couldn’t seem to shake. And sleep wouldn’t quell the loneliness in his chest; it only produced nightmares in which he was drowning, his breath being stolen from his lungs, being replaced with burning fire and gushing water.

A recurring nightmare that John had on a regular basis was of him standing on a rocky cliff, staring down at the crashing waves below, and suddenly the water would be sucked back into the ocean, revealing a shadow in the shape of himself standing on the empty shoreline.

He would watch in sick horror as a great tidal wave would begin to make its way inland, heading straight for the spectre of John down below. He would scream out for him to run, but instead of retreating to safety, the apparition would stand with its eyes on John above and allow the roiling, angry wave to sweep him away.

John would wake each time, gasping for air, spluttering into his pillow. His chest would be heaving as he tasted the echo of salt on his tongue. This was the type of pain that was built to last, soaking into his skin and settling itself in his bones like a disease.

He was finding it easier to stay quiet when he woke from these nightmares, but on one occasion Mary had woken to his sobs, automatically wrapping her arms around him from behind, holding him tight. One hand snaked under his arm and came to rest above his heart, pulling him tight into her warm body.

“John …” she whispered into the back of his neck as his crying subsided into quiet sniffles. “John, what’s wrong, love?”

John stared out into the darkness, not able to find the words to even begin to explain what was wrong. How could he ever tell her?

“Just a nightmare,” John sniffed, moving his hands up to cover Mary’s. He gave her hand a squeeze and moved his lips onto it, allowing her comforting touch to envelop him. John closed his eyes, feeling more tears silently fall onto his pillow, before he felt himself slipping into the in between state of sleep and eventually his tears abated.

“I’m here now, baby.” Mary crooned, placing a light kiss on his neck. “Go back to sleep. I’m here.”

John decided the next morning to walk to work instead of catching the bus, taking the time to clear through his thoughts. He was afraid of letting Sherlock go because he had invested so much of himself into him. Somehow, without Sherlock around, he was suddenly emptier and allowing himself to move on meant he would forever be missing that part of himself that Sherlock was holding onto.

John wanted to wean himself off him but Sherlock Holmes was like an itch he had to scratch. He sat at work in a stupor, taking advantage of the slow day to allow his mind to wander, replaying all the significant moments shared between Sherlock and himself: Sherlock saying he loved John. Sherlock and John dancing together for the first time. His confrontation with Sherlock at the train station. Each moment felt like a heavy weight on his chest.

He felt his eyes sting with the threat of tears, but he didn’t want to allow himself the liberty of crying, holding them back with clenched fists and heavy breathing. It was as if he didn’t want to allow himself to feel, because feeling meant he would have to acknowledge the mess he was in and when he did that, it all became too much.

Marlene tapped lightly on his office door before opening it and poking her head inside. She was holding a prescription form in her hand and had a smile on her face which faltered when she saw John’s serious expression.

“What’s wrong with you?” she questioned brazenly, opening the door wider so she could lean on the door frame.

“Whadayamean?” John stumbled over his words, blinking up at her. He quickly cleared his throat, attempting to regain some form of normality. “Sorry … what’s wrong?”

Marlene paused for a moment, eyeing John with a small smile on her lips. “I’ve got a form for you to sign,” she said, handing him the paper. “What’s going on with you? You look like someone’s _died_.”

John snatched the paper from her, forever marvelling at her ability to not only be incredibly perceptive, but also incredibly vulgar all at once.

“Just …” John waved his hand in a nonchalant fashion, attempting to play off his dark mood. “… stuff at home. I’m fine.”

“Aren’t you getting married in, like, two weeks?” she replied, folding her arms and frowning at him. “I thought you and Mary would be well loved up.”

John wanted to slam the door in her pudgy face, but instead he quickly signed the forms and thrust them back at her, pulling his lips into a tight smile.

“It’s normal for couples to go through stuff together, okay? Maybe when you’re in a serious relationship for once in your life you’ll understand,” John said. His voice was a lot harsher than he had intended it to be.

Marlene took the form and raised her hands in surrender, scoffing under her breath. “Alright! No need to get grumpy at me as well,” she said.

“Marlene, don’t you have … _filing_ to do or something instead of prying into my private life?” John was truly reaching the end of his tether with her and he stood, reaching over to the door to start shutting it.

She retreated back to her desk, muttering under her breath as John closed the door to his office and threw himself back into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

That evening, over their dinner, Mary sucked in a breath, before reaching out and covering John’s hand with her own. He looked up at her from his food and felt his stomach flip at the sight of her serious expression.

“John,” her voice was soft. “Are you okay?”

John blinked at Mary, feeling as though his mind were buzzing through a million responses before he settled on telling her half of the truth.

“I … I’ve just been a bit stressed lately,” he offered. “I’m fine.”

Mary sighed again, a frown gracing her forehead. “I know when you’re fibbing, John. I’ve seen you these past few weeks and something’s going on. Be honest.” Mary paused for a beat. “Are you … are you having second thoughts? About us?”

John opened his mouth to automatically deny the truth that Mary was saying, but he faltered, feeling too exhausted to continue his lie.

“Yes … sometimes …” he answered, his voice quiet. When he looked up into her face, he saw Mary carefully processing his words. “Mary, I still want to be with you. I still want to marry you. I … I love you.”

Mary leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her tea, before placing it back on the table between them and folding her hands over her lap, her eyes never leaving John’s. Her expression was unreadable and for a moment, John was afraid she was going to get up and leave.

“You still want to be with me, yet you _sometimes_ have second thoughts,” she said, repeating his words. “Well, here’s what I need from you: if you truthfully do still want to be with me, you need to be 100% in this, John. None of this second thoughts business - you’re either in this or you’re not. You need to be sure this is what you want. Before the wedding.”

“I am sure,” John replied emphatically. “I want this. I want us.”

Mary nodded, closing her eyes for a brief second before opening them and focusing on John, the bright blue sharp and striking. “I need you to be sure, though. I deserve better than having you walk out on me. I deserve better than you having cold feet on our wedding day, okay?”

John knew at that moment that what she was saying was true. He needed to be sure and he needed live in the present which meant leaving behind Sherlock and embracing his relationship with Mary again. John had once told Sherlock he would follow him anywhere, but he understood now that by doing that, he would be burning down the home he had built with Mary. And yes, she deserved better than that.

“I …” John reached out and squeezed Mary’s hand reassuringly. “I promise I won’t do that to you.”

John wasn’t sure whether the conversation was finished, but as he cleared up their plates, neither of the pair broached the subject again and Mary seemed content to let John head out for a drink at the pub with a friend. In reality, he wanted to have a drink by himself to subdue the thoughts that were flying through his head.

It had been a couple of weeks since he had seen or spoken to Sherlock, yet he still felt that deep sadness in his chest when he thought about him and sometimes, at night, he would call Sherlock’s phone, just to listen to it ring for what felt like years and end in Sherlock’s voicemail, his honeyed tones settling in John’s mind and infiltrating his dreams. He would always hang up before the beep, not really having anything to say anymore; all he needed was to hear Sherlock’s voice. He was confused because he knew he needed to move on from him and with his marriage approaching fast, he realised that he needed to figure out how to do it soon.

After one too many drinks, John decided to take a detour in the cold night air down Baker Street in an attempt to see him one last time before he said truly said goodbye.

Arriving in front of 221B, John looked up at Sherlock’s windows and saw the curtains drawn. John could have sworn Sherlock wasn’t there, except for the sudden ripple of the curtain as it was pulled aside infinitesimally and a dark figure stood stoically, staring down at John.

“Sherlock, please open the door.” John called out, moving up to the front door and resting his forehead on the wood, knocking with one hand. The alcohol had made him brazen. “Sherlock … I know you’re in there.”

John moved back and looked up at the window and still the dark eyes were watching John from above, impassable and scrutinising. John opened his arms wide, almost challenging Sherlock to come down as he took a few steps back to look up to where Sherlock was.

“Sherlock!” John raised his voice; his eye contact was steadfast against where Sherlock was peering out. “I just want to talk! _Please_ , Sherlock!”

John ran his hands through his hair, his breath coming out in hard bursts, misting in the cold air. If only Sherlock would come down and just talk to him for once, he could try and make things better. He was sick of being avoided. He had tried multiple times to call him and text him, but after every attempt ending in radio silence, he had given up trying. Now, he felt seeing him in person was the only way they would talk.

“Sherlock!” John’s voice cracked through the silent street. The cold had sent everyone indoors to their homes, leaving him the only person on Baker Street. “Just talk to me! _Please_!”

As his voice reverberated through the air, Sherlock shrunk away from the window, the curtain falling back across the glass so John could no longer see him. John ran his hands through his hair, frustration bubbling in his chest.

“Sher … you can’t … you can’t just ignore me forever!” he cried, tears blurring his vision.

John heard the front door being unlocked and his heart jumped into his throat. He watched the door open slowly and for a moment, he believed Sherlock would step out over the threshold, however, when Mrs. Hudson stepped outside into the cold, pulling her dressing gown tighter around her thin body, John let out a ragged hollow laugh and paced away from her, his hands wiping away the tears on his face.

“I suppose you’re here to tell me to leave?” John threw at her, turning back to face Mrs. Hudson.

She folded her arms across her chest and regarded John seriously, her breath steaming in front of her, curling above her head in slow, thick tendrils. Shaking her head, she moved forward in her slippers, reaching out a hand to place it on John’s arm, stopping him from pacing up and down in front of her.

“John,” her voice was quiet and her face grave. “You need to go home.”

John felt his body shaking with the cold and his nose was feeling numb. He stared into Mrs. Hudson’s face for a moment and she stared straight back, unyielding, and then John felt himself sagging underneath her touch, all energy leaving him.

“I just want to talk to him,” he pleaded. His voice broke, betraying the true emotions inside John’s chest. His initial thought was that he wanted to fold himself into Mrs. Hudson’s arms, allowing her to hold him until the cold left his bones.

“He doesn’t want to see you,” she said, resolute in her words. “You need to go _home_ , John. You need to go and get warm.”

John pulled himself out of her grip and covered his eyes with one hand, exhaling loudly. He was beginning to feel more sober as time went on and he felt ashamed of himself for acting this way in front of Mrs. Hudson.

“Yeah,” John dropped his hand and his tired eyes met hers. “I’ll go. Tell him … I’m sorry.”

John turned and trudged purposefully down Baker Street, not daring to look back at Mrs. Hudson for fear of her pitiful stare making him even more ashamed than he already was. When he finally reached the corner, he quickly glanced back at 221B and saw her moving back inside, shaking her head sadly.

John lay awake in bed that night, his mind spinning over his impending marriage with Mary. He was wondering whether Sherlock would realise the date was merely days away and whether he knew that John was going through with it. He wondered whether Sherlock was moving on just as John was trying to.

John glanced over at Mary before reaching over to his nightstand and grabbing his phone. He brought up a search engine and typed in the name of the dance school Sherlock had applied at: “Sussex Dance Academy”. He was curious as to whether Sherlock had been accepted into the teaching role, because he knew, if he had, that he would soon be moving away to Sussex for good.

John quickly found a link on their website labelled ‘OUR STAFF’ and he clicked it, feeling apprehensive at the thought of finding Sherlock’s name. He scrolled through the many names on the page before reaching the last name on the list, in bold blue writing: ‘Sherlock Holmes’. John reread the name multiple times, his heart suddenly beating a little faster, before moving onto the piece underneath:

_‘Sherlock Holmes will be travelling from London to join our company just in time for Christmas. He has over 15 years experience in classical ballet and also specialises in barefoot dancing. He previously danced under the prestigious Royal Ballet School in London, starring leading roles in many productions such as the Nutcracker and Giselle._

_With his professional background, he will also be treating us by choreographing and performing his own movement in our yearly Christmas Production in a few weeks’ time._

_Sussex Dance Academy would like to welcome Sherlock Holmes very warmly and we are looking forward to his successful career with us.’_

So Sherlock was going to be leaving London.

He knew this would happen eventually, but seeing it in writing suddenly made it feel more final than ever. He felt like once Sherlock left London, he was officially leaving his past with John behind and moving onto bigger and better things. He wanted to be happy for him, and a part of him was, but he couldn’t stop the feeling jealousy that he could just leave so easily. Of course there was nothing tying him to London anymore, not now that John was moving on too.

\--

John woke on the day of his wedding with a knot in his stomach. He was lying in his bed alone with Mary staying at a friend's house so the next time he saw her she would be walking down the aisle, glowing in her wedding dress. Everything had been leading up to this moment and yet, even hours before their wedding, John still felt trepidations about it.

He pictured himself, years from now, with Mary by his side, a wedding band on his middle finger, possibly a child underfoot, and his stomach tightened even more. But he had promised to her that he wouldn't walk out. She had told him to be sure and now was the time he needed to keep that promise.

There was a light tap at his bedroom door and John let out a hoarse reply, calling out to Harriet to come in. She opened the door and moved into his room, smiling brightly. She was already showered and had a casual, black knit dress pulled over her small frame.

"Time to get up, sleepy head."

John groaned as she sat down on the end of his bed and yanked the blankets belligerently off his face. He eventually had to sit up, allowing the blankets to fall off him completely, his tired eyes meeting Harriet's.

"Look lively," she quipped, patting his foot which was concealed underneath the blanket. "Today's the day!"

Yawning, John rubbed the sleep from his eyes and slipped from the warmth of his bed, moving to his closet to grab his warm dressing gown.

"Please tell me you've made a cup of tea for me to wake up to," John said, pulling on his gown and following Harriet out into the living room.

"What kind of sister would I be if I didn't make my brother a cup of tea on his wedding day?"

The pair sat down to a light breakfast, although John didn't have much of an appetite, so instead he sipped his tea and pushed his toast around on his plate.

"You really should eat," Harriet said, her mouth half full with muesli. "It's going to be a long day."

"Yeah, I'm not that hungry at the moment. I'll be fine," John replied, pushing his plate away from him.

Harriet placed her spoon back into her bowl and threw a pointed look at John, pushing his plate back at him.

"John. _Eat_." she admonished, frowning.

"Isn't there some kind of rule where sisters don't get to be bossy and mean to their siblings on their wedding day?" John picked up a piece of toast and pointedly took a large bite out of it, before placing it back on the plate.

"You know, I actually think there's a rule where it says sisters _have_ to do that."

John rolled his eyes at his sister and drank the rest of his tea in silence. He was feeling more relaxed after talking to Harriet and felt ready to start preparing himself to go to the chapel.

After a shower and a very careful shave, John perched himself on the floor in front of the couch where Harriet was sitting and allowed her to fumble with his hair, styling it so it sat in a relaxed coiffure. She paused in the middle of running product through hair and he heard her begin to say something, but she hesitated, the words falling short from her lips.

"What is it?" John automatically brought his hand up to his hair out of fear that she may have messed it up somehow.

"Don't touch it!" she said, pushing his hand away. "Your hair's fine, John."

"Well what is it then? You were going to say something, so spit it out," John said.

"You're not going to like it," Harriet said quietly, resuming her attention to his hair. When John remained silent, she continued. "I'm just ... I'm just worried you're making a mistake marrying Mary."

John pulled away and turned to throw her an incredulous look, staring Harry in the face. “What kind of bloody thing is that to say?”

"I told you that you wouldn't like it!" she said defensively. Her expression was bashful and she almost looked guilty.  "Turn around, I need to fix the back a little."

"You're talking about Sherlock, aren't you?" John asked, turning back so Harriet could finish up with his hair.

"I was just thinking … don't you think there's a reason you cheated in the first place?" she asked thoughtfully. "What if that reason is because you shouldn't be doing this? I ... I love you too much to see you make the same mistake mum and dad did."

The admission of love she held for John was uncommon and it made John shift uncomfortably in his spot on the floor. She was wrong, he thought. If there was anyone he wanted to avoid emulating regarding relationships, it was his parents. Both Harriet and John had seen the stunted marriage between their parents flounder as they were growing up, and they had also seen what can happen when a relationship like that is left to its own devices instead of being terminated once and for all.

"I'm not making the same mistake as them," John answered, sure in his words. "I love Mary."

"Don't you also love Sherlock?"

John paused for a moment, mulling over her words. Could you still love someone you haven't spoken to in weeks? Or would that just be considered obsession?

"Yes, I do love him." John finally answered. "But I haven't seen or heard from Sherlock. It's over, Harry, and holding onto that isn't going to do me any good. I love Mary - she's good for me."

Harriet remained silent, smoothing out the back of his hair with light, stroking fingertips. He heard her sigh.

"Well, I just want you to know that it's never too late to back out. This is your life and you don't have any obligation to follow a path you don't want to go down." She said, removing her hands from John's hair.

"You're getting soft in your old age, mate." John said jokingly.

"Shut up," she pushed the back of his head. "Finished. Go take a look."

John stood and turned to look at his sister as she began picking up the hair products on the seat next to her. Standing, she brushed past John, avoiding his eye contact, and made her way to his bathroom to store the products away. Following, John examined himself in the mirror.

"Thanks, Harry. It's good," he said, taking in his appearance.

"Right. Time to suit up."

\--

Pulling into the small church, John spied the familiar faces of his friends and colleagues and he felt his stomach twisting again. Ignoring the feeling that he wanted to run as far as he could, he emerged from the car and made his way through the entrance into the chapel, smiling at his friends along the way.

It was a quaint church that Mary had picked and inside were long pews, each with delicate bouquets of Lily of the Valley flowers tied with brown twine at each end. At the head of the chapel was a simple wedding arch, laden with white tulle and twists of green vines and pale pink Baby's Breath.

"John!"

Turning, John saw Mary's maid of honor making her way towards him in her pastel pink bridesmaid dress, her face breaking into a bright smile. She hugged him tightly, placing a kiss on his cheek.

"Nervous?" Charlotte asked, standing back to look at John.

"Yeah, you could say that," John answered with an awkward chuckle. "Is she here yet?"

"No, she's running a late, so you've got time to relax a bit before we start." Charlotte's cheeks were flushed with excitement. "I can't believe the days finally here! She’s going to _flip_ when she sees you."

As Charlotte continued babbling at John, his eyes travelled past her to a dark corner of the chapel where a figure, shrouded in shadow, was standing watching John's interaction. Suddenly, John felt goose bumps erupt all over his body and his hearing faded as he realised Sherlock Holmes was standing in his presence, here to see John leap into wedded bliss with Mary.

"Uh, Charlotte, I'm going to have to leave you for a moment. I've just seen someone I need to say hello to." John left Charlotte mid-sentence and began making his way over to Sherlock, his heart pounding in his chest.

When Sherlock saw John walking over, it was as if he suddenly realised where he was, and he quickly turned and fled the church. John quickened his pace, rushing to reach Sherlock before he left entirely, and when he reached him in the parking lot, he grabbed the material of his coat with one shaking hand, forcing him to turn and face him.

"Why are you here?" John's tone was more accusatory than he had intended it to be - he was overwhelmed at seeing Sherlock and it felt like he were suddenly drowning with the need to either hug him or run into the nearest bathroom and hide there until he left.

“The invitation you left behind … I thought I might just …” Sherlock’s voice was low and hoarse, reflective of how he was feeling inside. “I don’t actually know why I’m here, to be honest.”

“Do you want to find somewhere to sit?” John suddenly asked. He knew Mary was going to be late and he wanted time to talk to Sherlock; to just spend time with him was everything he could have dreamed of.

The pair walked slowly around to the side of the chapel where there was a small secluded bench overlooking the church garden. They sat side by side on the bench and Sherlock pulled off his coat, revealing a tailored black suit, with a charcoal black shirt tucked into his trousers underneath. His hair had grown longer in John’s absence and it lay in relaxed curls across his forehead, skimming his azure eyes.

“You look good,” John commented, unsure what else to say.

Sherlock’s lips pulled into a small smile and he uncomfortably shifted in his seat, his eyes meeting John’s and then falling to the garden in front of them.

“So do you,” he replied.

It was as though both the men had a million words they wanted to say, perched on the tip of their tongues, but they were unable to say them.

“Are … are you okay?” John finally said.

Sherlock’s eyes met John’s and he was afraid Sherlock was about to start crying. His soft lips parted for him to respond, before he sighed and let out an awkward chuckle.

“Truthfully? No.” Sherlock lowered his eyes and cleared his throat. “But I will be. I got the Sussex job - I’m moving there next week.”

“That’s great,” John lied. He didn’t want Sherlock to know John had been internet stalking him, so he feigned innocence.

John watched as Sherlock focused intently on his trousers, smoothing the fabric out, a frown knitting across his brow. It was only when the small crease on the bridge of Sherlock’s nose appeared as he looked up at John, his curls swaying delicately in the cool breeze into his eyes that John couldn’t help himself and he reached out and brushed the soft hair away from Sherlock’s eyes. The motion was so tender and Sherlock seemed to crumble underneath his feather light touch.

“I miss you,” Sherlock breathed, his eyes steady on John.

John sucked in a quiet breath and withdrew his hand from Sherlock’s face. He couldn’t be hearing this from him, not now. He had been so sure of himself yesterday, almost excited at the fact he was getting married, and yet now …

“You can’t say that, Sherlock.” John said quietly. “Not right now.”

“ _Why_?” Sherlock demanded. “Why not?”

“Because I …” John felt his eyes welling with tears as he attempted to form a reason, yet he couldn’t manage any. Deep down, he was elated that Sherlock was here and he was even more elated at the fact that he _missed him_. He managed to form a sentence and felt his throat constricting with despair as he said it: “I can’t do this with you … not anymore. I’m getting married today.”

Sherlock’s bottom lip quivered and he closed his eyes, letting a few tears fall down his pale cheeks.

“I know,” Sherlock voice was a whisper across his lips, all strength lost.

When he opened his eyes again, they were shining deep cerulean and emerald, drinking in the sight of John as if it were the last time they would see each other.

“I don’t know if Mrs. Hudson told you, but I guess I should tell you myself … I’m sorry, Sherlock. For everything.” As soon as the words left him, John heard how pathetic they sounded and he hated himself for it.

Sherlock gave John a small smile and he automatically reached out one hand to grab onto John’s, their fingers linking together, fitting into the imprints they had left behind. For a moment, John wanted to lean forward and kiss his full lips, but instead he pulled his hand out of Sherlock’s and stood hurriedly.

“I have to go …” John managed to say and Sherlock didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I really am.”

Sherlock was holding back tears, that familiar crease on his nose making it even more difficult for John to leave. He stood so the pair were face to face and John heard Sherlock’s breath escaping him raggedly.

“Okay,” Sherlock said quietly.

And John knew he had to leave, before he did something he regretted. So he turned on his heel and began slowly walking back to the carpark. He could feel Sherlock’s gaze piercing the back of his head.

“ _John_.”

Sherlock’s voice rung through the air and John stopped on the outskirts of the garden, just about to enter the carpark, turning to find Sherlock rushing up to him, his cheeks still wet from tears.

Sherlock stopped in front of John and moved in close, his hand coming out to hold onto John’s, and suddenly it was as though the world had stopped spinning so the two could exist in this moment together. The air was suddenly very still and all John could hear was Sherlock’s voice and feel the weight of his hand in his.

“I forgive you,” Sherlock said softly. “I understand why you’re doing this and I forgive you.”

The way Sherlock was looking so utterly soft and lost, John couldn’t stop himself. He leaned forward and placed the most delicate kiss on Sherlock’s lips, his hand coming up to caress his cheek and then he moved it down to hold onto the back of Sherlock’s neck, his fingers interlacing into the soft tufts of hair at the nape of his neck. Sherlock sighed into him habitually, his body settling back into its fit with John’s, as if it had never left.

Pulling away, John dropped Sherlock’s hand and took a step back, his hand coming up to touch his lips and feel the echo of Sherlock’s kiss, the taste of him still lingering on his mouth.

“I … I’m sorry,” John stuttered. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

John went to turn away from Sherlock to run inside back to his wedding, but Sherlock reached out and grabbed his arm, forcing him to look into Sherlock’s face; his eyes were pleading.

“Please don’t marry her,” his voice was faltering, crackling from the strain of the words. “Please … please don’t do this, John.”

John attempted to suck air into his lungs, but he felt like he couldn’t get enough. He was suddenly overwhelmed and part of him wanted to say _okay_ and run away with Sherlock, leaving behind Mary and this wedding and his past. But then he also remembered the promise he made to Mary and he knew he had to keep it.

“Sherlock … I’m getting married. And you’re moving to Sussex.” John pulled his arm from Sherlock’s grip and breathed in, steadying himself. “I have to go … I’m sorry.”

John turned and marched out into the car park, brushing unshed tears from his eyes. He wanted to turn around and tell Sherlock he still loved him, but he couldn’t. He needed to move on in his life and if that meant being with Mary, then so be it.

That was when he looked up and came face to face with her.

Mary was standing in the car park, her eyes watching John darkly, and he knew she had seen his entire interaction with Sherlock, including their kiss. John hurried up to her, excuses already spilling from his mouth, but she raised one hand to silence him. She was dressed in her bone white wedding dress, looking utterly beautiful, but the expression on her face made her terrifying at the same time. John had never seen her like this.

“Who was that?” her voice was low, deathly calm.

“Mary, please, let me explain—“

“You know, I did have this feeling that something was going on with you, but I didn’t realise it would be something like this …” she narrowed her eyes, a small smile twisting at her lips. “So tell me … who was that?”

“Sherlock.” John admitted, all fight leaving him. It was all over.

“Sherlock Holmes? Your dance instructor?” A light tittering laugh was forced from her lips. “So you’re gay now?”

“No, I’m not gay,” John said defensively. “I like women ... but I also like men – Mary, can we not do this here?”

“This is unbelievable,” Mary said incredulously, shaking her head. “How long, John? How long has this been going on?”

John spied Harriet exit the chapel to come and find him, only to stop in her tracks when she saw the tense confrontation. There were a few people around eyeing the pair curiously.

“Since I first started getting dancing lessons with him,” John said honestly and regretfully.

“You really don’t deserve me.” Mary spat, and for a second, John glimpsed tears welling in her eyes, before she blinked and they were gone. “I’m going to leave now. _Don’t_ follow me.”

John extended his hand towards Mary as she turned, picking up her dress, and walked with quick footsteps back to her car. His head was spinning and he suddenly felt as though he were going to vomit. Glancing behind him, he saw that Sherlock had disappeared too.

He was alone.

Except then he heard his sister’s voice, breaking through his reverie, and her hand was on his shoulder, leading him to a seat out the front of the building, forcing him to sit.

“ _John_ ,” she said, crouching in front of him so they were face to face. “John, what happened? Talk to me.”

John blinked slowly and met her gaze and suddenly his face crumpled into anguish, wet mazes of tears tracking down his cheeks.

“It’s done,” he said bitterly. “She found out about everything.”

“What do you mean?” Harriet urged, her hands coming to rest on John’s knees.

“Tell everyone to go home,” John said. “The wedding’s off. It’s finished.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you guys enjoyed this one!
> 
> As ever, let me know what you think <3


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... the final chapter. Let me just tell you: this is the first full length story I've ever completed (usually I end up getting distracted by other things and never finishing them), so this is kind of a big deal for me.
> 
> I'd like to give a huge thanks to my friend Ana aka WeepingKettle, who, since starting to read my fic, has become a really good friend of mine. Her support throughout me writing this has helped me endlessly and I'm forever grateful for the help she constantly offers me. <3
> 
> \--
> 
> Music:
> 
> [For Him](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EIXVb4WVM-k)
> 
> [Sherlock and John's dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eolPN4j3npQ)
> 
> Find all of these songs featured on my Spotify playlist [here.](https://open.spotify.com/user/1245955049/playlist/7CgD2pvEfJiI4E5TCT0619)
> 
> \--
> 
> Thank you for reading [1901](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gvss3uhSKjw) <3

Snow was beginning to flurry through the streets of the unfamiliar township in Sussex as John sat in the cab, watching houses pass by; it was Christmas Eve and John spied Christmas trees lighting up the windows of many houses. The cab was warm and John dreaded having to get out into the cold when they arrived at his destination.

Pulling into the wrought iron gates of a large, stately private school, the driver slowed to a crawl, making his way through rows of parked cars and crossing people, all dressed in stylish woollen coats and hats, until he reached a taxi bay where he pulled over to let John out. John handed the driver his money before leaving the vehicle, immediately feeling the cold seep through his thick winter coat. Snow dusted his hair and eyelashes, melting upon contact.

He wasn’t sure what to expect coming to watch Sherlock dance at this show, but as John took in the vast brick and mortar school with its endless windows, intricately designed, and the huge sprawling gardens, he began to feel out of his depth, like he didn’t belong here.

Berating himself for not figuring out where he was supposed to go, John decided to follow the small groups of people, all obviously here to watch the Christmas show as well.

Eventually, John turned a corner and saw the entrance to the large auditorium. A banner with lights hanging over the top of the open door read:

‘SUSSEX DANCE ACADEMY PRESENTS: WINTER WONDERLAND’

Making his way into the foyer, John was immediately overwhelmed by the huge crowd of people, all waiting to enter the theatre and take their seats. He managed to make his way through the crowd up to the front desk where he was greeted by an older woman with short brunette hair and a pair of glasses perched on her pointed nose.

She peered at him over her glasses, raising her eyebrows at his soggy appearance.

“I’d like one ticket,” John said, feeling uncomfortable and cold.

“Twenty-one quid, love,” she answered with a thin smile. “You want a programme for an extra fiver?”

John nodded and handed over his cash to the woman. He took his programme from her and threw her a distracted word of thanks, his eyes moving onto the crowd around him, noticing the multiple performers mingling in the throng before the show started. John immediately felt anxiety bubble in his chest – he was worried Sherlock would also be out in the crowd before he went on stage. He hadn’t expected dancers to be out before the show, but then again, he had never been to a show like this, so he didn’t really know what he was expecting in the first place. All he knew was he didn’t want to bump into Sherlock right now and have him find out he was here – his plan was to slip in, watch Sherlock, and leave.

He wove his way through the crowd and managed to find his way into the auditorium where there was a respite from the loud hubbub. He found a place at the back of the theatre, perching on his seat nervously, glancing at his watch.

He wasn’t really sure what he was expecting – all he really wanted was to see Sherlock so he knew he was okay. It had been a few months since their interaction at the wedding and since then, after John and Mary had split up, he hadn’t tried to contact Sherlock, deciding time alone would benefit not only himself, but Sherlock as well. And now he felt as though a weight had lifted off his chest and he was free to breathe again and although some nights were still hard, with the dark thoughts creeping their way into his dreams, those nights came less often. All he needed was to see that Sherlock was in a better place now; he wanted him to be happy, even if it was without John.

The auditorium was large: plush velvet seats spanning in front of him slowly filling with people; that led to the stage, which had a thick maroon curtain obscuring it. The lights were dim, just enough to illuminate the aisles so people could find their way to their seats. John allowed himself to let out a long sigh, attempting to settle his nerves.

“Excuse me, dear.”

An elderly woman was standing above John, smiling sympathetically. John apologised, standing to let her squeeze past him and sit herself in the seat directly next to him. Her husband arrived a minute later, his hands carrying two plastic cups of red wine; he shuffled in front of John to take his seat next to his wife.

“You here with your wife?” the woman croaked, her green eyes twinkling at John.

“Uhm, no. I’m here to watch someone dance,” John answered.

“Oh how lovely,” she said, clasping her hands together, her red lips pulled into a grin. “Who is it?”

John allowed his eyes to rove over the sea of people sitting in front of him, thinking about who Sherlock was to John. His friend? His boyfriend? An acquaintance? None of those options seemed to fit.

“The love of my life,” John murmured under his breath.

“What was that, dear?” she leaned in to John, her small hand coming to perch on his armrest.

“A … a friend,” John corrected himself.

John opened his programme, scanning through the performances, his eyes immediately falling on Sherlock’s name, which was second down on the list, meaning he only had to wait through one performance before Sherlock took to the stage. His stomach twisted when he saw the title of Sherlock’s piece: ‘ _For Him_ ’. The meaning was absolutely clear but it didn’t make John feel any better.

John closed his booklet when the lights dimmed entirely, shrouding the theatre in darkness. The din of voices subsided in expectation.

“Good evening, everyone. Merry Christmas and welcome to Sussex Dance Academy’s annual Winter Wonderland show,” a woman’s voice erupted from the speakers. “We’re so pleased to have everyone here tonight and we hope you enjoy what we have in store.

We have a mix of performances for you tonight, including movements from the Nutcracker and Sleeping Beauty. We also would like to welcome Sherlock Holmes, one of SDA’s newest teachers, who will be performing a special self-choreographed ballet for us.

Now please, sit back and enjoy the show!”

There was a smattering of applause as the curtain on the stage began to slowly rise, revealing a large stage, empty expect for a tall Christmas tree positioned in the back left corner, twinkling softly with white Christmas lights.

Chiming music began to fill the room and a lone ballerina ran onto the stage, dressed in a long white tulle tutu, a delicate silver tiara adorning her blonde hair. Beaming, she turned lithely, before flitting off into the wings again. John recognised the music flowing out of the speakers however, not having watched ballet before, he couldn’t place where it was from. As more ballerinas danced gracefully onto the stage and off again, John glanced into his programme and saw that this was called ‘ _The Waltz of the Snowflakes_ ’.

As the music increased in tempo, from each side of the stage the girls began dancing onto the floor in unison, standing on _en pointe_ with ease. John thought the performance was beautiful, but he was fairly clueless as to what he was really looking at; taking in the faces of the people around him, he knew they must be doing a good job, because most of the people were smiling gaily at the sight.

Eventually the stage was filled with dancers and as they started moving together, their motions elegant and fluid, snowflakes began to flutter from the ceiling on top of their heads. John suddenly sucked in a breath as he realised _they_ were the snowflakes. He was beginning to understand the story being told and was actually enjoying himself.

After the performance came to an end, the crowd erupted into loud applause and John applauded with them, shocked at the fact that he had truly appreciated the performance. Growing up, he had never watched ballet before, finding it particularly boring, and choosing instead to follow other sports and focus on academia; this was an entirely new experience and he had thoroughly enjoyed it.

It was only when the crowd quietened and John saw the stage being swept hurriedly to clear away the snowflakes that John knew Sherlock would be waiting in the wings to come on stage and dance.

He reread the programme, his eyes moving over the title, the words repeating over and over again: _For Him. For Him. For Him._

The stage was emptied of people and suddenly the lights on the Christmas tree went out, cloaking the stage in darkness. John strained his eyes, desperately inching forward in his seat to look for any sign of movement, his heart leaping into his throat. Over the speakers a single piano chord rang out through the auditorium, followed by more harmonies of chords, repeating themselves for a few moments.

A low spotlight suddenly illuminated Sherlock’s lone figure, standing in the middle of the stage – his head was hanging down so his curls were falling in front of his face, obscuring him from the crowd. John thought he looked naked, but on closer inspection he realised he was bare chested, his taut muscles moving with every breath he took, and on his lower half were a pair of skin tight, flesh coloured men’s ballet tights that were high waisted, just reaching his belly button. He wore a pair of flesh coloured ballet shoes on his feet which were scuffed from use over the years he had owned them. In his dancewear, John marvelled at just how sculpted his body was – each muscle toned and shaped from years of dance.

As the music started building, small drops of different chords melding with the whispering piano, Sherlock kept his head bowed and slowly started lifting his right leg straight upwards to his side. He reached his arm out and grasped onto his foot, which was curled over into a perfect point, pulling it up higher, his muscles and tendons stretching lithely. And as the music changed to absolute quiet, Sherlock paused where he was, his muscles beginning to twitch faintly with the strain of holding his position.

Suddenly the music came to life, the delicious melody filling the theatre, along with the stage being lit up by hundreds of fairy lights, twinkling on the walls and the curtains and even dangling from the ceiling. Sherlock lifted his head and sucked in, audible enough so that John could even hear him from the back seats. He lifted up on his toes and pushed forward, letting go of his raised foot so he could twist into motion, his eyes half shut with feeling. Sherlock’s pale form looked stark against the black background, but with the countless dazzling lights behind him, he looked like he was dancing in a galaxy of stars, painting the sky with his fluid movement.

John was captivated, lifting his hand to his mouth as tears formed in his eyes; Sherlock looked like he was also close to tears, his face lined with passion and pain as he curled his body into buttery soft lines and silk. His tender movements were unlike anything John had seen from anyone before, much less from Sherlock, and as he leapt malleably through the air, John felt himself edging forward in his seat even more, unable to tear his eyes away from him.

John gasped quietly as Sherlock tumbled to the ground, thinking he had hurt himself when he landed; he was crouching and curling his body over so his toned back was heaving, sweat glistening on his pale skin, yet when he tucked his head into his chest, his hands deliberately coming to position themselves on the floor and he kicked his legs out from underneath himself, John realised this was just a part of his performance. The music continued swelling and shrinking, alive in itself, and in the quiet moments in between the soft chords, John could hear Sherlock’s laboured breathing and his feet moving across the dusty floor with hushed whispers.

John tore his eyes away from Sherlock for a moment to look around him at the awed faces of the crowd, each watching Sherlock’s performance, inspired by his exquisite and poetic movements. And as John turned back to Sherlock, watching him stretch his body through each step, painting the darkness around him with his delicate fingertips and curled toes, John remembered Sherlock all those weeks ago telling John how he needed to _taste_ the music to truly feel it ... and now John felt he really understood what he had meant by that. John could read the story Sherlock was telling; he could feel every ounce of passion Sherlock was giving him. It was heart-breaking and exhilarating all at once.

As the music began to taper off, taking John’s breath with it, Sherlock’s movements began to slow, his limbs becoming softer as he twisted to a stop in the middle of the floor. There was nothing loud about this end: it was quiet and final in its movement, yet the action resonated through John’s chest as if Sherlock were screaming at him.

His chest was heaving, sweat glistening on his skin, and his eyes were half closed, lips parting so he could catch his breath. John was overcome with emotion at the sight and as soon as he saw Sherlock frown, that all too familiar crease appearing on his nose, John couldn’t bear it so he stood and made his way out of the auditorium, his head spinning.

He heard the crowd erupting into enthusiastic applause, but he didn’t stop to clap with them. He couldn’t – he needed to get out to some fresh air so he could still his beating heart. He needed to close his eyes and attempt to scrub away the imprint of Sherlock’s haunted expression as he danced. If this performance was for him, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do with it.

After their interaction at John’s wedding, he had avoided talking to anyone, including Sherlock. He didn’t want to hurt him anymore than he already had and he thought by allowing him to move to Sussex without interference from John, that would mean he was allowing him to move on. He thought it would mean he was allowing _himself_ to move on, but after witnessing that, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

John pushed through the exit and came to a standstill out in the snow, allowing the cold to filter into his skin. He flexed his hands automatically, trying to calm himself down and figure out what to do now – there were no more trains that would take him back home until the next morning, so instead he decided to call a cab to pick him up and take him back to his hotel for the night.

He walked through the maze of cars in the dark parking lot, on his way out to the sidewalk to meet his cab, his breath ghosting out in front of him. Suddenly, he heard a man’s voice travelling towards him.

“—were amazing,” the man said. “Thank you for letting me watch that.”

John quickly glanced around to look out for the people talking and when he saw Sherlock accompanied by a tall, blond man heading straight for him he felt like he were going to throw up. Sherlock was engrossed in the conversation, so he didn’t see when John dashed behind a car to avoid him.

He crouched out of sight, peeking through a car window to watch the pair as they made their way past. Sherlock was wearing plain black trousers with a black sweater pulled on underneath his Belstaff coat, which was draped across his shoulders.

“Are you sure you don’t want to head back and watch the rest?” the blond man asked, curling his arm around Sherlock’s waist.

“No,” Sherlock answered plainly. He glanced down with a derisive glance at the man’s hand on his waist. “I’d much rather call it a night, Lucas.”

“Oh, yeah. Fair enough,” he replied, awkwardly removing his arm. “Maybe I can watch you dance again some other time?”

“Mm, perhaps,” Sherlock replied.

John couldn’t help but smile at Sherlock’s date being dismally rejected and he watched as the pair walked further away, their voices fading as they moved out onto the main road. Lucas pulled a pair of keys from his pocket and unlocked a small silver hatchback, opening the passenger door to beckon Sherlock inside, who flashed him a warm smile of thanks as he entered the vehicle. Lucas moved around to the driver’s side and jumped inside, starting the car.

John watched from behind a pillar as the pair continued their conversation in the warmth of the car and after a moment, Lucas leaned over to Sherlock, one hand rising to cup his cheek, and he placed a lingering kiss on Sherlock’s lips. John couldn’t stop himself from becoming insanely jealous at the sight and he had to resist the urge to storm over to the car and punch the blond man’s smug face as he pulled away, smiling coyly.

John watched them pull out into the road and for a moment, he was thankful they were leaving, until he spotted his cab waiting for him and on a whim he dashed into the cab and demanded the driver follow their car.

John was led to a quaint bungalow in a suburban location in West Sussex and as Sherlock’s car pulled onto the side of the street, John indicated the cabbie could pull over a small way ahead so they wouldn’t notice him watching the pair from the car. John twisted in the backseat to watch as the blond man jumped out of the car and opened Sherlock’s door for him. Sherlock stepped out and said something to the Lucas, who laughed in response.

“Oi mate,” the cabbie said impatiently.

John waved his hand distractedly as he watched the blond lean forward, placing his hand on Sherlock’s arm, kissing him softly on his cheek. He scowled at the sight and was thankful that Sherlock moved up the steps to his front door alone while Lucas went back to his car and drove away.

“Mate, you getting out or are we leaving? The meter’s still running, you know.”

John watched as Sherlock began to search through his pockets for his keys and suddenly decided to take his chance, thrusting money at the driver and dashing from the car, making his way over to Sherlock. His mouth was suddenly dry as he approached him.

“Uh … hi.” John said awkwardly, suddenly aware of how creepy it was that he had followed Sherlock to his home.

Sherlock looked up from unlocking his front door and his mouth fell open when he saw John, his body frozen for a moment as he registered the situation.

“What …” Sherlock was lost for words and he moved down a few steps to come level with John, snow beginning to dust his dark hair. “What are you doing here?”

John couldn’t read whether Sherlock was happy to see him or just plain annoyed, but the fact that he hadn’t told him to sod off immediately was a relatively positive sign.

“I … I’m not sure. I just wanted to see you. To say merry Christmas, I guess,” John offered. “I watched you dance tonight … you were outstanding, Sherlock. _Really_.”

“Oh …” Sherlock wouldn’t stop looking John up and down, as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. “You … you followed me here to tell me that?”

“I guess …” John said with a grimace. He moved forward, reaching out to touch Sherlock’s hand before thinking better of it and disguising the motion with an awkward sway of his arm. “Are … are you okay?”

Sherlock allowed silence to stretch out between the pair as he mulled over the question. “Mostly,” he answered as he pulled his coat around him tighter to protect himself from the cold.

Suddenly, John felt like he couldn’t stop the words bubbling from his throat. “Would you consider trying again, Sherlock? With me?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened at this. “I … John, this is all very sudden. I think you should go and we can talk another time. It’s late.”

“I’m in Sussex until tomorrow. I’d really like to see you again before I go.” John’s hand delved into his pocket and he pulled out a stray business card that contained his new mobile number. “When you’re ready … if you’re ever ready to forgive me … just let me know. I’ll be waiting.”

John felt as if he were watching the scene unfold from above as he pushed his card into Sherlock’s cold hands, his fingertips lingering on his soft skin, before turning and beginning to march down the street, unsure where it would lead him. He felt as though his heart was being ripped from his chest and it took all his energy to stop himself from turning around and begging Sherlock to take him back.

John suddenly felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He stopped midway down the street and pulled it out, seeing an unknown number flashing up on the screen.

“Hello?” he put the phone to his ear, hoping against hope that it would be Sherlock on the other end.

“I already told you I forgive you,” Sherlock’s low voice rumbled out through John’s phone.

Turning, he spied Sherlock still standing on the steps of his house, phone to his ear as he looked down the road towards John. He couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face at the sight of Sherlock standing there. It was a glimmer of hope.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Sherlock asked after a moment.

“God, yes.” John responded, already making his way back to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s home was small and messy, boxes still piled up in his living, not yet unpacked from his move. There was no furniture in the living room, except for a rug in front of the unlit fireplace and single wooden dining chair positioned next to it.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, nervous. “I still haven’t managed to get around to unpacking …”

“Or buying furniture?” John quipped.

“I’m actually going for a _minimalistic_ approach nowadays,” Sherlock jested with a small smile and John’s heart sung at the sight.

Sherlock pulled off his coat, throwing it carelessly on the floor and crouched down in front of the fireplace, fumbling with wood and matches. John allowed him to struggle for a bit before kneeling down next to him, taking the box of matches and telling him to go make some tea while he lit the fire. By the time Sherlock returned with two steaming mugs, the fire was blazing warmly, John warming his hands in front of it.

Sherlock handed John his tea and sat down smoothly, cross legged in front of John. John turned and sipped his tea, watching Sherlock pull off his shoes and toss them across the room so he was just wearing a pair of black socks. His jumper was rolled up at the sleeves and his hair was sitting in relaxed, long curls, and John marvelled at how soft Sherlock looked in the warm firelight.

“Thank you,” John said ardently after sipping his tea.

“It’s just tea, John.” Sherlock answered with a frown.

“No … I mean, thank you for this,” John gestured to the room, motioning to the fact that Sherlock had allowed him to be here with him.

The pair sat in silence, listening to the fire crackle pleasantly. Their eyes regarded each other seriously – something between them felt different, like there had been a shift in between the time of their confrontation at the wedding and now. The distance that had once separated them had now been crossed, allowing them to find each other again.

“So was that your boyfriend?” John broached hesitantly.

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock said, not bothering to hide his distaste. “He would like to be, but _obviously_ that would never happen. Did you not see his hair? He’s an idiot.”

“Wow, tell us what you really feel, love,” John said with a small smile. He had called Sherlock ‘love’ before realising it was coming out of his mouth and he was worried Sherlock would feel uncomfortable with the term, however he seemed relaxed, watching John coolly as he drank his tea.

“So are …” Sherlock placed his tea on the floor beside him, suddenly very preoccupied with a strand of fabric coming loose on the rug. “Are you and Mary still, uh, together?”

“No,” John answered immediately. “I haven’t seen her in a long while. It’s well and truly over between us.”

Sherlock’s eyes moved up onto John’s and he saw Sherlock’s vulnerability laid bare for him. “How can I be sure you’re telling the truth?” he said in a small voice.

John felt shame well up in his chest as he thought about how fragile Sherlock’s trust must be since John’s betrayal. It would take months, or even years to fix that, but he knew he wanted try as hard as he could to do it.

“Sherlock,” John placed his tea on the floor and reached out to grasp onto Sherlock’s hand; it was trembling slightly, and not from the cold. “I know it won’t mean much anymore and I know it might be past the point now, but … I promise I will never lie to you ever again. If I could go back and do things differently, I would in a heartbeat. I will _never_ betray your trust like that ever again.”

Sherlock’s eyes were dark as they stared into John’s, unreadable as he processed what he had just said. He looked as though he were contemplating a million different responses before settling on something.

“I just don’t want to give myself to you only to have you leave again,” he said, leaning in closer to John now, his eyes softening. Their hands were slowly interlacing, fitting into each other comfortably.

“Sherlock, if I achieve nothing in my life except for loving you … I know I will have done everything right. You’re my guiding light, love. I always come back to you,” John breathed. “I won’t leave.”

Their foreheads came to rest together and suddenly John realised Sherlock had tears falling from his eyes, which was the last thing he wanted to happen.

“Oh no, love, no …” John used his free hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek, brushing away the tears that were sitting on his skin. “I don’t want you to cry. Please don’t be sad.”

Sherlock sighed, his eyes closing. “Please … just kiss me.”

John didn’t need to be told twice. He moved into Sherlock’s space and tenderly placed a soft, urgent kiss on Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock responded in kind, screwing his eyes shut as he shakily pressed his lips into John’s. He tasted familiar and yet entirely new; he was like a book that had been sitting on the shelf for too long, untouched, finally opening its pages for him. John moved his hands into Sherlock’s hair, running his fingers through the silky curls, savouring the feeling. He wanted to exist in this moment, hovering in the state of bliss as his tongue delved into Sherlock’s mouth, tasting tea and honey. Tasting _Sherlock_.

Pulling away, John watched as Sherlock’s eyes remained closed, his mouth pouting in search for more kisses; his face was flushed, a pale pink that was dusting over his cheekbones and his nose.

John sighed, shaking his head at the sight, before leaning in again and placed another kiss on Sherlock’s lips, his hand returning to its place in his curls. But soon after, Sherlock pulled away from him, his eyes moving over John’s body as if he were getting an idea. Without speaking, he shuffled back and reached out to pull one of John’s feet out from under him to place it in his lap.

“What are you doing?” John asked quizzically as Sherlock began untying his shoelaces, pulling off his shoe and placing it on the floor behind him.

“What do you think?” Sherlock said sarcastically, quirking his eyebrows at John as he returned his attention to John’s feet, starting on his other shoe.

John thought back to the moment all those weeks ago when Sherlock had removed John’s shoes and he had done the same, right before he had taught him the steps to their dance. He remembered his body _aching_ with the need to kiss him, but having to hold himself back because he wasn’t a free man. Well, he was free now to kiss Sherlock as much as his heart desired, and as he watched a strand of hair fall in front of Sherlock’s eyes as he concentrated on removing John’s second shoe, puffing out his breath to get it out of the way, John felt like he could spend the rest of his days kissing Sherlock.

“Come on,” Sherlock stood and held his hand out for John, his face serious. “We’re going to start again.”

John was pulled up to his feet by Sherlock, watching in confusion as Sherlock pulled out his phone and pressed a button – a familiar song flowed out of the speakers, filling the room with its lamentations. John recognised it immediately.

“I don’t remember the moves,” John protested as Sherlock placed his phone on the mantelpiece and pulled John into him, latching onto him firmly.

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” Sherlock crooned, his hands softly fitting into John’s skin. “Just relax.”

_“Are you gonna hide are you gonna burn,  
gonna answer me?”_

John soon forgot about his embarrassment as Sherlock pulled him in close, their bodies sinking into each other, soon finding their rhythm within the music. And although John could hardly remember the dance Sherlock had taught him so long ago, neither of the men cared – it didn’t matter when Sherlock hands were moving from his waist around to the small of his back with a tender pressure that made John go weak inside. John thought about the fact that he was free to do this for the rest of his life if Sherlock would let him and he couldn’t stop the question springing from his lips.

_"Let me take your heart,_  
love you in the dark,  
no one has to see ..."

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

It sounded childish and silly to John, but all of a sudden, Sherlock’s emerald eyes were colliding with John’s and a wry smile played on his lips, before he uttered out a small: “ _Yes._ ”

Sherlock broke eye contact with John, lowering his eyes so his dark eyelashes splayed out across his pale skin. His smile broke out across his features, reaching his eyes and nose so they crinkled, revealing a map of lines where Sherlock’s happiness could be traced out.

 “Oh my god,” John breathed, using his hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek and grazing his thumb across his cheekbone; he wanted to remember the way the firelight danced with warm colours across his skin.

“What?” Sherlock whispered. His eyes were heavy-lidded and impious and they wandered over John’s features hungrily.

“You’re just … the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” John offered. “I didn’t think it was possible for me to love someone as much as I love you.”

“Do you say that to all the boys?” Sherlock said.

“No. Never. Just you …” John said, swaying in time with the music. “It will always be just you, Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions about anything regarding this fic, feel free to comment and I will answer as soon as possible.
> 
> Let me know what you guys thought and whether you enjoyed it or not!
> 
> Also, if you want to talk to me on tumblr, find me [-here.-](http://www.misanthropic-acedia.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thank you all if you have made it this far - you have no idea what your support has meant to me and how much it has helped me get through the days where I didn't want to write anything at all.
> 
> <3


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